Harold says nothing and does nothing to stop me. Once outside, I turn to take one last look at my discovery in the cave.
I’m more curious than ever about this interesting man. What an opportunity I miss because I behaved so inhumane.
Harold keeps watching me. He cannot trust me at all. This is not the kind of person I want to be.
Wait. I stop and turn around. Is that what I think I see? It appears he beckons me back. I take a step or two back toward the cave. I stop. I double check to confirm what I think I see. He motions for me to return.
I cautiously saunter back to the cave in case he wants to change his mind. He continues to motion me back. His waves are now quite exaggerated. I think I’ve been given a reprieve, a second chance.
Harold sits cross-legged on the floor of the cave with the bundle securely in both of his massive hands. I notice as he sits on the floor of the cave, his head reaches to the height of my shoulders. He invites me to sit on the floor with him. I do slowly and carefully copying his posture and praying that my arthritic knees will allow me to rise when that time comes.
Looking down at the bundle in his hands, “I may have lied when I said I am not Sasquatch.”
Harold raises his head. The iris in his eyes are as black as his pupil. Yet, now they reflect a sincerity that I have never noticed in an adult. I am suddenly struck with the reality that this large, hairy humanoid may be revealing his soul to me.
“I don’t know anything about my mother or father nor my heritage. I have no part of any culture. I am not a member of any race, maybe not even the human race,” his voice raises as he shares sounding more like pleading rather than frustration.
He begins to loosen the bundle. I watch as he leaves through the unique pages of this unusual journal. Finally, he seems to find the object of his search. He hands it to me.
In my hand is what once was a brown paper sack. It has been laid open to become a flat sheet of paper. The fast food company logo on one side and words written with crayon on the other. The words seem to be in the form of a poem.
I walk alone
Hidden from view
Not to be known
But see I do
Desire I some
Deep in my heart
Long to become
To be a part
Attempts I tried
To join the throng
“You don’t belong”
I try to blame
The God above
You say he came
To show me love?
It is not God
To bear the shame
He made me odd
Loves me the same
In still of night
The truth is clear
God’s light is love
That few hold dear
I sit and stare down at this bag stained by the remnants of a happy meal that was once inside. I reread the sad verse that rests between the stains written in the blue crayon which was once the prize.
“So, you feel forced to live as a hermit,” the obvious crawls out from my lips.
“I don’t just feel it. I live it. When I try to connect with others, I evoke fear and they run from me as you did, or they want to shoot me, or some wish to capture me and study me scientifically.”
“I want to learn from you.”
“So, that’s why you tried to steal my journals. Why couldn’t you wait and sit down and talk to me?”
“We are here, now. You’ve made your point. Why don’t we put my mistakes behind us and start over.”
I offer my hand. Harold glances down at my hand. Then he looks me in the eye. He takes my hand. His grip is extreme. My mind jumps to that moment where he indicated he might not allow me to leave. I put that behind me as I promised.
I write about what I'm thinking or what I've imagined in an effort to regain that childhood imagination and marry with my many years of real experiences. I'm getting better at it the more I write.I am a published author of two romantic intrigue novels.My books can be found at Amazon.com or if you want a personalized copy, by emailing me at firstname.lastname@example.org.