Present, n. That part of eternity dividing the domain of disappointment from the realm of hope.
Alex exhaled sharply. He hadn’t even realised that he’d been holding his breath. He felt dizziness swirl about him, like he’d been engulfed within a powerful, emotional tornado, affecting only him. That’s how tornadoes work though, destroying one house while leaving its neighbour unscathed.
“It doesn’t make any sense,” he muttered, trying to steady himself against this unexpected barrage of vertigo. He was afraid that he may pass out.
“Dad, are you okay?” Lorne said, supporting his father’s weight.
Lorne helped Alex to the chesterfield. Alex looked inside the cigar box, unable to dispel the disbelief he felt. “Dad wrote me out of the will for this?”
“What is it?” Jeff asked. Alex handed him the box. Inside was the missing medal. It was star-shaped and tarnished. Decades of neglect had covered it in a thick brown patina. A tattered red, white, and blue ribbon held on tenuously to a ring on the top of the star. There were words etched on it, but they were indecipherable through the tarnish. Underneath the medal, was an old black and white photograph of what appeared to be a family of four; a husband, a wife, and two children, a boy and a girl. They were dressed in fine clothes, the males wearing suit jackets and ties, the females wearing dresses. Both the males wore yarmulkes. The photo was slightly discoloured and wrinkled, but otherwise in decent condition. Continue reading “CHAPTER 5”