Out of His Head

The Legend of Sleepy Hallow

               I stood there and looked at myself in the mirror. I had always been told

I was a beautiful, affable young woman but was it just the pleasure of seeing me that impelled these suitors to return day after day, or a much more superficial cause? This thought haunted me daily and although fathers words reverberate through my mind telling me this could not be further from the truth and to put such thoughts out of my mind, I can not help but be despondent.  

              For this reason, I fear wearing my heart on my sleeve. I act hopeful when in reality I have to swallow pills every morning to ward away the despondent feeling inside of me growing larger and larger, seeming interminable. Still, I hold my tongue and put on a brave face and a fragile smile, save, of course, when I'm with them.

          I can't quite decide on who I like best, but when in their presence, nothing feels amiss. Which is why I soak up their entreaties for my hand greedily; their love water and I the sponge for I'm never too sure when their patience with my will run thin.

         Naturally, they abhor each other, I know Abraham for a fact has played pranks on darling Ichabod, his irascible personality revealed whenever Ichabod is in sight. Abraham has made him the laughing stock of the town, but none the less, Ichabod returns to me every day. The knowledge of such a thing fills me with such satisfaction that my usually tremulous smile stretches from eye to eye in a refreshing way I don't often feel.

        Although Ichabod may act like a sage, experienced in being a school teacher and all, he's immensely superstitious. In fact, in our vocal lesson yesterday, he came to me with such a frightened way about him, fidgeting, his hands tremulous, and constantly looking over his shoulder as if he had just seen a ghost. His disposition soon made me weary and when I asked him to explain his sudden change of behavior, he told me the the Headless Horseman was what was bothering him now that he knew it was more than just a mere legend. At hearing this, I could not stop myself from laughing, right in his face too, but now I feel horrible, realizing that the Legend gave Ichabod quite a fright.  

      He left our farm early that night even denying my offer of tea, and Monday he missed our lesson, as the rest of the week. Thinking he was offended, I went to meet him at his school, but when I asked if Ichabod had come was informed he had not come in at all this week, and was promptly asked to leave. And so I did, but my next stop was not our farm, but Ichabod's home. When I arrived there, the door was locked, the -ights off, and the only living thing around as far as I could tell, was Ichabod's horse. I saw the horse immediately but the owner was no where in sight.

         At this point I was so worried, I even thought of the Headless Horseman riding after Ichabod in his nightly quest of his head, convincing myself I had heard a scream the night he left my house. Ridiculous right? Anyhow, that is the point of which I came to you. Please, please, find Ichabod, because now as the circumstances are, I've decided; I choose Ichabod. And I know you say Abraham looks exceedingly knowing when one mentions Ichabod's disappearance, but I have to assure you, Abraham would never kill Ichabod, play a few pranks now and then but he means no harm, and I firmly and truly believe in this. As for now, I will return to my farm, but as soon as your staff and yourself have the slightest idea or hunch of where he may be, please ask someone to relay the news to me.

     Thank you so much for your time, I know with you on the case and I can put my mind at ease. Goodbye now.

Catching Leukemia

Catching leukemia

I stroked the worn out edge of it with my thumb, holding it in my hand memories flooding though me. It belongs to me brother Sterling— or at least belonged.

He got it for his birthday. Mom wanted to take us out to some fancy restaurant and then let Sterling pick out his own gift. He didn’t eat anything; but he ran to the shop absolutely giddy. He came back with the mitt in his hand, eyes glimmering.

I remember talking about it with him after his game, asking why he kept writing those poems onto it. He set the mitt down and looked at me like he couldn’t believe I had to ask. But instead of answering my question he just smiled that toothy smile of his and ran his fingers through his scarlet hair before turning back to the glove.

This just about drove me crazy. Not Sterling avoiding the question, but him running his fingers through his mane, as if he needed to draw even more attention to the thing being as bright as it already was. I had told him this before, but he still did it, and not just every once in a while, but all the time!

He paused looking lost in thought thinking of the next poem to write down. While he thought I gave him a quick up-down; he looked weaker than before, the circles under his eyes more prominent than ever and even though he was smiling he looked as feeble and unhappy as I’d ever seen him. Then suddenly I remembered a quote, “How about ‘every spectacular incident of evil will be balanced by 10,000 acts of kindness?” I asked. Sterling closed his eyes thinking it over, perhaps, before quickly reopening them, pausing to stare at me, “Are you sure you’re not the smart one in the family?” he joked causing me to roll my eyes and scoff, though I was secretly pleased, at the same time trying to think of a good comeback, but before I got the chance Sterling picked up his mitt again.

That was the last time I spoke to Sterling before his leukemia got him, alone, in the dead silence of the night.

He never officially gave me custody of the mitt, but that horrible night when I ran to my room, hoping when sunrise came he’d be back in his room re-reading the poems, there it was, sitting on my bed. I must’ve read those poems more than a hundred times before managing to go to sleep that night, tossing and turning, even in my sleep, wishing Sterling there with me.

Now with the mitt warm in my hand, I knew he would always be with me, even if it was just by the memory of him running his hand through his hair, holding the same glove that I held now, that night.