A Letter Home
Posted on Thu Aug 4, 2011 @ 3:08pm by
Edited on Thu Aug 4, 2011 @ 3:26pm
1,136 words; about a 6 minute read
Wilda Faye - My Dearest Sister,
Well...here I am, in trouble again. Are you surprised? Of course not. On the plus side, Lillian is with me. You might not consider that a plus, but at least you know where we both are.
All of my personal and business affairs were left in your capable hands or with our long-time friend and solicitor, Mr. Lucas McMillan. Please warn him not to hasten to declare me dead. I want the full, complete ten-year waiting period as is built into all my powers of attorney.
The good news is...As promised, I am now officially out of Starfleet Intelligence. I am assigned to a science and exploration vessel. One of the new Intrepid class. Her name is the USS Voyager. I am acting First Officer, but once that's sorted, I will be serving as Second Officer and Chief of Security....sort of a shipboard county or parish sheriff. Unfortunately, there was no time between assignments to get fitted for a regular Starfleet uniform. The all black intelligence monkey suit lends an intimidating air though. This could be a good thing for the new sheriff!
Now for the bad news...You're probably going to hear on the news or receive one of those dreaded letters from Starfleet Command. The one that starts with, "Dear Mrs. Cain, we regret to inform you..."
Thing is, Wilda Faye, Voyager and her entire crew are lost seventy thousand light years from home. We were transported to the Delta Quadrant by this super-technically advanced alien jellyfish dude. It went kind of down hill from there.
We're headed for home, but unless we find a stable wormhole, another super-technically advanced alien jellyfish, or some other shortcut, it's gonna be awhile. Like, in the neighborhood of seventy years, give or take a decade.
While you and I have not always shared the same philosophies when it comes to religious and spiritual beliefs, we have always agreed that nature abhors waste. It is to that I speak when I say that, in time, we will see one another again.
Until then...my dearest sister...
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
Your Loving Brother,
Jericho
Cain lay down the old fashioned fountain pen and gently sprinkled the fine drying sand on the ink. An easy shake and the sand slid into a wastepaper basket beside the small desk. His connection to home would be the letters. Short missives written and then stored away in the personal safe in his quarters. Creating and filing them electronically would have been easier, but this way felt right.
Precisely and carefully, Jericho folded the letter, slipped it into an envelope and sealed it. In his neat, slanting handwriting, he addressed it to his sister. Rising to his feet, he padded across his quarters to the small closet and opened the safe. The letter, a first of many, was added to other treasures that lay there; an old pocket watch that belonged to his father, a dog's collar with the name Blue etched into its name plate, and a lock of long wheat-gold blond hair tied with a dark silk ribbon...a souvenir from the first time Lillian had cut her tresses.
Shutting the safe, Jericho picked up another treasure from the closet, grateful that Kathryn had remembered to request it with the rest of his personal effects. It was a well-loved antique Dreadnought 12-string acoustic guitar. It had been built in the late 20th century and bought for him on his twelfth birthday when he showed both a talent and love for learning music. Its back and sides were made of wild cherry, the neck was silver leaf maple, the top was cedar, and the fingerboard and bridge were rosewood. Its sound was pure and sweet with a rich mid-range no matter the style of the guitarist. The old Art and Lutherie was probably his most prized possession.
Flopping onto his bunk with his back to the headboard and the guitar cradled in his lap and arms, Jericho ran his hands down the strings relishing the music in response. "Computer...lights, dim one-half." Immediately the lighting in his quarters faded and became softer. Choosing a song from memory, Jericho began to sing, softly...almost to himself. His voice would never garner a musical award of any kind. He sang and played for pleasure, not to delight and amaze crowds. His singing voice was pleasant and on-key, a light yet rich baritone enriched by his native southern accent with its distinctive Cajun lilt.
(C) Oh the neon lights were flashing
And the (F) icy wind did (C) blow
The water (Em) seeped in(Am)to his (Am/G) shoes
And the (F) drizzle turned to (C) snow
His (F) eyes were red, his (C) hopes were dead
And the (Am) wine was running (E) low
And the (F) old man came (G) home from the (C) forest
His tears fell on the sidewalk as he stumbled in the street
A dozen faces stopped to stare but no one stopped to speak
For his castle was a hallway and the bottle was his friend
And the old man stumbled in from the forest
Up a dark and dingy staircase the old man made his way
His ragged coat around him as upon his cot he lay
And he wondered how it happened that he ended up this way
Getting lost like a fool in the forest
And as he lay there sleeping a vision did appear
Upon his mantle shining a face of one so dear
Who had loved him in the springtime of a long forgotten year
When the wildflowers did bloom in the forest
She touched his grizzled fingers and she called him by his name
And then he heard the joyful sound of children at their games
In an old house on a hillside in some forgotten town
Where the river runs down from the forest
With a mighty roar the big jets soar above the canyon streets
And the con men con but life goes on for the city never sleeps
And to an old forgotten soldier the dawn will come no more
For the old man has come home from the forest
Note: Words and lyrics by Gordon Lightfoot
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