Loved, but not Lost

Dear Dad,

It’s been 7 years since I last spoke to you face to face. I speak to you now, sometimes in sleep, sometimes in waking, sometimes in memory. Most often I think of you while high in the mountains backpacking, hiking, spelunking, scuba diving, or while studying your grandson. He has your eyes. 

I think of you when in the service of others. How many people did we pack or unload from moving trucks? How many secret Santa deliveries did we make? How many cuts and bruises did you sew up and sooth? I think you chose to be a doctor not just heal people's bodies, but with your calm, gentle words, to heal their spirits.

My first memory of you is teaching me to doggy paddle, empowering me to explore the water on my own, showing me the importance of independence and trust. I recall you holding the back of my bike as I struggled to get my balance. I remember you packing us up for family trips and teaching us the importance of frugality by doing things yourself—like fixing that troublesome van again, and again, and again. You only ever splurged one day of the year. I’ll never forget the light in your eyes on Christmas morning as you watched us filter into the living room and shriek for joy.

I remember the music. You played piano every night. It soothed my soul and made me yearn to find the music within. You championed my singing and quieted my complaining brothers.

You taught us the scriptures. They have been a source of comfort and strength in hard times, a place for seeking answers when I earnestly needed to know truth, and in times without you.

The greatest lesson I learned from you, Dad, is the lesson of family. Because you loved us, you lived your life in such a way that we could one day be together forever, and showed us the way.

I love you, Dad. Thank you for the legacy you left me. When this life is done I will gladly step beyond, knowing that my father waits with a welcoming embrace. I look forward to that day.

Love,

                Crystal

 

Stephen Lloyd Hicken was born May 17, 1950 and is a beloved son, husband and father. He served a mission in Brazil, four years in the air force, as a scout master for 20+ years, and as a doctor. On November 20, 2004 he left this life after a three year battle with lung cancer. He is greatly missed; loved, but not lost.

The Anywhere's 4: The Book

http://mosshead.deviantart.com/art/Elmhurst-27875755?q=boost:popular+suburban+street+night&qo=160

Kaitlyn stood on the darkening curb, framed by a box of light from a window, clinging to her ancient treasure, mammoth backpack threatening to tip her onto her backside.

Biology study group. She hated Biology. Especially the study group. How many times a week could she stand to be laughed at for mistaking chloroplast for chloroform, or mitosis with osmosis?  No matter how she dedicated herself, the ideas wouldn’t stick and her private school chums were ruthless.

“Stupid biology.”

Her focus at piano lessons earlier had been abysmal. Karate was no different, and she had the bruises to prove it—not that she didn’t always take a pounding in Karate. She’d earned “Kamikaze Kaitlyn”, or Kamikaze for short, or Kami (which really bothered her because of the political connotations, comi for communist). ‘Steer clear of the Kami!’ they’d whisper when she entered the room.

“Stupid Karate.”

The window shades dropped, leaving her in shadow. That chipper little house promised a full night’s humiliation. Unless…

She slid the invitation out of her new-old book. Decorative parchment made her fingers tingle. A special symposium, rare artistic opportunity at her favorite place on the planet…

Her phone read 8:25 pm. If she hopped back on the bus she could be there with five minutes to spare—

But then, what about Mr. Strange?

The backpack finally won, pulling her onto her rump.

“Stupid gravity.” She set the invitation aside, sliding her backpack off sore shoulders.

Instant light smacked her in the face. She raised an arm to shield herself, peering around it at the circle of radiance, a headlight. The car sat parked on the curb not ten feet away, but no one started it. It just sat there, blinding her.

Paranoia clenched her throat. A hundred stories about stalkers and kidnapping raced, unwelcomed, through her mind. Strange cars, watchers in the darkness, and an abandoned street…

Snatching up her invitation, she leapt to her feet, racing blindly for the stairs of her dreaded biology inquisition.

Smack. She landed again on her rear.

Black leather boots stood over her, leading up to denim jeans, a black T, fitted leather jacket, crossed arms, and black hair with vibrant red streaks.

The woman, probably only five or six years older than herself, smirked. “Hello Kaitlyn.”

She frowned. “How does everyone know my name? Who are you?”

“You’re wanted at a convention tonight.”

She blinked out her astonishment. “Did Mr. Strange send you?”

“I’m here to escort you.”

“You mean kidnap me?”

The woman laughed. “You have the book. That’s a good thing, but don’t think it’s going to protect you. You have absolutely no idea what’s at stake tonight.”

Kaitlyn swallowed. “Who sent you?”

“Come on, get up. We have to get moving.”

She shook her head. “I-I have to go to biology-”

“There are very few things you have to do Kaitlyn Strom.” The woman offered a hand. “Coming with me is one of them.”

Climbing to her feet, Kaitlyn clasped the book closer.

“You have the key too?” her kidnapper inquired.

She nodded.

“I’m Rose.” Throwing the chevy door open, she pointed at the seat. “And this is your chariot, oh child of paper.”

What was that supposed to mean?

“I’m not the bad guy,” Rose promised.

“There’s a bad guy?”

“Get in.”

Kaitlyn hesitated.

“Or I can force you.” The mischievous smile was enough to convince her to obey. She landed on a black padded seat, clinging still to her book, door snapping shut.

Rose pulled away from the curb, examining the rear view mirrors carefully. “I work with an association of agents, talented ones like you.”

“I’m not talented.”

“Then you don’t know yet? It will happen, and soon. I’m betting tonight.” Rose turned onto a main street. “At any rate, I’m not like you, but I know what you can do. Pretty crazy stuff.”

Reaching into her pocket, Kaitlyn realized her cell phone waited back on the curb somewhere. So much for calling 911. She was at the mercy of psycho lady.

“Have you even cracked that book yet?” Rose asked.

Only to read the inscription on the inner cover. Loosening her hold, she stared at the worn cover.

Dad disappeared after reading it. This was the only clue she had to his sudden departure, and although she was dying to search for leads, half of her feared she would find one. Half of her feared she wouldn’t. Truth is, the superstitious side of her warned that danger waited in these aged pages—which was ridiculous, of course.

Her fingers brushed over the old leather, shivers running up her arms. She brushed at the goosebumps. Whispers tickled across her mind.

“Did you hear that?” she asked.

“Hear what?” Rose watched the road intently.

No. She must have imagined it.

“What are you afraid of Kaitlyn Strom? It’s just a book.”

What was she afraid of? She flipped the tome open, landing on a page with a wood-engraving print. A man stood on the prow of a fishing boat, spear raised, helmet gleaming against a stormy sea. Behind him sat another man, balancing the vessel, face half enshadowed by a hat.

She squinted closer. His eyes turned to her.

“Dad!” she gasped.