Char and Ash

I

         Octobers are the best time of the year, or so my dad used to tell me. He would look into my eyes and say, “Charlotte, October is the best time of the season, it is; I say Elizabeth,” he would turn to my mother, strolling with her delicate arm in his, “I don’t know what you see in December, it’s so bland, and white.” He would shake his head. I loved my father, I loved how passionate and serious he would get. When my mother commented on how the snow sparkled and made towns cozy and the air crisp, my father would smile and whisper in a pestering tone, “October is better, love.” I was thoroughly amused by those obiter dictums then, I realize now, as I look back, why I did not understand them.

         Times were hard, and so were people. Pedestrians would take no notice of changing lights as they crossed the road; neither did the drivers, vehicle and being clashing was far from unheard of. Horse and buggy would trot by, pulling joyful mother, father, and child. Christmas was near, glory and spirit was in the air, I could feel it, anyone could.

         “December,” my mother would breathe, “and what a fine month it is. Now come along, Charlotte, we must gather your father.” My mother would often tell me of how father loved to wander off. Not typically “Irish”, my father would stray from other men and pubs; he would often say ‘If it is not Irish, then by God, call me English.’ I would chuckle at the bravery of his chosen words.

         Christmas morning was always a joyful one, with bacon being fried and sending maddening aromas through the house, eggs scrambled, bread toasted, cups filled as laughter echoed throughout the room. This was a time of pleasant joy while gifts of surprise and expectation were opened, smiles seamed permanent on faces and the day always seemed long until done. I was always pleased with what I received; itchy jumpers to books to pencils, hugs to meals to mistletoe to stories, memories to time spent with loved ones to the feel of disappointment when it was all over and I was left feeling, waiting for more.

         My father was a true man of science, by profession; but by heart, he was the epitome of a poet. He tired to help me with my curiosity of his outlook on The Months. I asked him simply, ‘Why October.’

         His answer was not uncomplicated. He began by saying that each person had one of the ‘12 Months’ they felt close to. Few paid any attention at all to it, it was not witchcraft or magic of any sort, it could not help or change a thing in the world. He said that the ‘12 Months’ was simply a way of finding more of yourself by the Month you chose. He chose October because he always and forever would be intrigued by how the leaves would turn from green to orange to yellow to brown and then fall off the tree limb and die. He was curious of how the ending of the Month was always more important than the beginning and how, on the last day, spirits would rise and everyone would celebrate, living or dead. It was nay his trick, nor his treat. It was just his.

         In the next few months I wanted to go on a conquest to find my Month. Not knowing where to commence, I sought my father. My father was articulate about the ‘12 Months’, for he had a drawer full of papers and papers on facts, thoughts, and philosophies on it. He also obtained the ‘Poesies of the Seasons’ which were short three-bodied poems on the Look, The Feel and the Time of the month. Once again, I did not understand. He acknowledged my misapprehending and told me the time would soon come.

         I never really knew my father, as well as I could of, he would often go on walks and ponder. Only sometimes I would go along with him and even fewer would my mother. I generally went with him in springs and falls. Summer was a time of play and joy and no school. Winter was of cold weather and perfect frosty snow which I did not want to ruin with my boots.

         To me, spring was one of the best times of the year; with rain pouring down on everlasting earth, flowers blooming, birds soaring through the air and song in the hearts and minds of every beast and being. It was then when my father died.
He was coming back from buying us gifts for Easter as a surprise, when his heart failed him. I tried not to cry, though I gave leeway when we attended his funeral. The only thing my mother decided to put on his epitaph was: ‘To those who love October will always stay dear.’

         I understood the meaning and when I got home that day, after the funeral, I set out to do my work. I decided to see if I could find my month by my name: Charlotte Elizabeth Radley: C.E.R. C.E.R.? That could only be…none of them. I then decided that I wanted a Spriangtus, a Spring Month. April.

         If April showers bring May flowers, then April was the Mont of Creation. Besides, I loved the rain.

         The days went on and the memory of my father grew more sacred as I studied more and more. Until one day, I was temporarily side-tracked from my studies. I was fifteen.
School was difficult, people were busy, and my grades were slipping. I would have sworn on the belief of love that they were all too fast, too spontaneous to notice me or my quiet or my Months. It was not until that November day, I was fifteen and the weather was less and less as was my mother’s health. Wither was hard on her but her love of December never ceased.

         I was slowly walking from school, my coat’s buttons fastened, my scarf bunched and my gloves secure on my hands. I had books weighing down my arms, some on astrology, some on psychology and the rest were my school books in my backpack. There are times when objects of wonder come across you and you want to stay in that moment, with that person, in that place for eternity and its price. A precious cry of a rare bird, an old picture of a forgotten relative, a new knowledge of a desired field. But even rarer is coincidence, a coincidence of finding something that no one expects to start looking for in ten years and when one finds it, all is rewarded, especially when no work was input.

         “Charlotte,” a baritone voice called. My father, my father was back, there was the same implication in words, tears filled my eyes with bliss but when I turned around, there was only a mere boy my age standing lone on the pavement. His face was pale from the cold, and his eyes were spheres, mocking the blue color of a king’s blood, his hair was dark, like an unexplored crater in the moon. He was handsome, with a book in his hand. Astrology. He trotted to me. “We share a class. I don’t think you ever noticed the fact that I sit behind you.” I blushed inwardly, thinking of the charts and notes I nonchalantly wrote through History and Shakespeare. “I want to learn.” I looked at him for the first time, realistically. “I want to…I want to know what I am…how I am…” I looked away, he put out his hands as if to delay me leaving, “I want to learn, will you please teach me…my mother,” he went on, still, as if trying to convince my already made answer, “was a Wiccan.”

         I noticed his discreet was and looked at him again. “Take my hand” I sighed, and he quickly latched his to my offered hand. I handed him my load of psychological encyclopedias and we walked, briskly, hand-in-hand, to my home.


II

         “This is a basic chart” I instructed as I drew him a Munthion chart as simply as I could, “it is called a Munthion Chart.” I sat cross-legged in my room of which the walls were epitomes of the universe with stars and moons of the different planets. It was unexpected and breathtaking when someone walked in for the first time.

         “Munthion Chart,” he repeated, “Munthion Chart, I’ll try to remember it and it represents the 12 Months.”

         “Officially Munthions, but Months also.” He smiled at my discreet joke and I looked down at the Chart, hiding a colored smile.

                   “Charlotte, what do the Months represent?” he was a curious one and I looked up at him.

         “That’s what we are trying to figure out. He- my father died before…” He could finish. I knew it was foolish to be so emotional over him, but still…he was…

         “I can help- assist you, Charlotte, I’ll work hard and-“

         “Follow me,” I led him into the hallway; my mother was in bed, ill. We slinked to the end, “here,” he looked at his surroundings, in confusion, “look up.” He did and then understood. Above us was the trapdoor to the attic, my father’s, and now, my workroom. He did not know what I completely meant, but could relate to it and comprehend. He was a clever one.
I reached up and pulled the latch dangling from the trapdoor and a stairway descended down in front of us. He stepped aside and I ventured up the stairs and he followed behind me. He was in awe when he first glanced into the room.

         “Amazing.” He declared, and amazing it was with its brim filled with notebooks and charts and papers decorated with the many ink spots and stains and books and books of psychology and astrology. There were newspaper clippings and various pictures of stars and moon and planets. It looked as an American inventor’s office in the 1890s, when glamorized in a movie. All of the paper’s crisp whiteness was now dulling and ancient and sacred.

         “My father’s goal was to start another field in astrology, of course, some things were left unsaid, which is why I continue studying.”
He looked confused for a moment before asking, “How do you find your Month?”

         “You choose,” I responded and he relieved, I continued, “best was is through name- initials. What is your full name?”

         “Ashley Seamus Owen.” He responded.

         “Interesting,” which it was, very, “A.S.O., have you ever noticed that’s August, September, October? So what about it?”

         “I’ve always loved fall, the fresh crispness of the air and the leaves and even your own breath. Not too early but not to late, I like all mid-seasons.”

         “October.” We both said together, I tried to shake it away. October, October, October. Out of the ‘12 Months’, it had to be the one. I smiled and looked toward the small attic window, where his old desk was. I was not depressed or tearful, but I felt a certain joy within my chest. Could be a joke between the boys at school? Who can mock Charlotte, first? Charlotte, with her strange ways and quiet mystery. Charlotte, whose father passed away and mother is ill. Charlotte, who befriends her satanic books and relates with her odd charts. I knew the rumors and I knew why people thought them. This very well could be a joke. How could I be so foolish to show him my methods and my father’s theories? I decided to test him. I became leery.

         “Are you curious of me?” His voice startled me and I looked at him, I tried to be sly trying to search him, to see the truth, but he just laughed in amusement. “Truly, you are being cautious, I’m really decent,” he tried to reason but I still was not sure and because of my being discreet did not work, I decided to be straight forward.

         “Yes, I am not going to instill fear in myself wondering what you are sharing behind closed doors, what you will say or how you react. I do not know if I will continue unless I can trust you…” and that’s when I remembered why I allowed him in the first place, I suddenly felt foolish and arrogant, he had already proven himself. “Your mother was a Wiccan?” I already knew that to share that bit of information was a true sign of loyalty. He could probably relate astrology, Wicca, and Pagan religions; he probably already knew their roles intermingled with psychology. I suddenly felt ridiculous.

         “I do not know if I can assure you, so I might as well-”

         “Never mind,” I was being foolish in several ways, “just do not give me reason to mistrust you.” I was serious when I said that. I had reason, however daft, to be protective of my father’s work.

         “I think I had better start to leave. My father is a little strict ever since…well, good bye Charlotte,” and with that, he descended down the staircase. I sat there for a while, reflecting on the past, my mind flipping through thoughts like television channels. Then, there was one focus. October. That was it! October. The starting Month of Munthius. But wait. April, the Month of Creation. Exactly six months apart. Opposites attract, opposites attract. Did dad know that? What did October resemble? The Month of…December was the Month of Tranquility. The leaves fall, the wind blows, the air becomes more and more frigid. I looked about for help and a little crumbled up paper caught my eye. It was a beckoning of some sort in a way, there were many dust bunnies and crumbled papers and old dusty books and notebooks scattered around. It was not like a spiritual yearning, but the paper was just one of those feelings, internally, when you become curious of certain things. I stepped towards the paper. I took it in my hand and smoothed it out. On it were two poems that read:


October
Bright leaves are born and deceased;
Animals are finders, keepers; none the least.
Ponds grow darker, murkier, mysterious;
The land is all of mayhem and nature’s riches.

It is as if the spirits came out to play,
This dark, friendly feeling is not wanted to go away.
Time is now, spirituality deepening,
All of the wild beasts feel the need to begin with sleeping.

Period of Mystery, Age of the Old;
This is the time when everything you touch may turn to gold.
A time of loss and gain and content.
Alas, this is the Month to be under swept.


December
The first sign of flakes tee off,
Ponds and lakes seem of being crystal on top.
Tenants are inside their homes, safe and warm,
Children watch through their window, a winter storm.

A touch of warmth, an embrace, a buss,
Emotions of celebration, sorrow and bliss,
Decorative residences and year-ending vows,
Excitement arises, the time is now.

Last Month of the Year,
Lastly made pledges are sincere,
Time has come, snow shines with sparkle.
In its own way, this Month is a Marvel.

         I knew what October could only be. I was correct in naming the other Months. If April was the Month of Creation and it is six months away from October, October could only be…the Month of Fatality.


         The strange things in life have meaning, or possibly, a rewarding result. They come suddenly, startling the thinker as much as a surprise birthday party. I was overcome with my conscience telling me, begging me, to reach Ashley.

         It was raining outside and pretty cold. The wind blew like a hot kettle and I was shivering in my boots. I was walking the streets of Dublin in the direction of his house. I knew exactly where he lived because I looked it up in my school’s directory. I trudged down and then I saw his red door with an old, gray fence in front. I entered the gate, skipped up the stoop, and with a shaking fist, knocked on the door.
A thin, shabby-looking man answered the door. He had whiskers and healing nicks around his lower face from past shaving. He possessed vibrant green eyes and brown hair with visible gray whiskers. There was the sadness of a widower, and the thoughtfulness of a well-developed literary thinker.

         “Are- are you…can I see Ashley?” I asked, I had almost forgotten why I had gone over there. He nodded and opened the door.

         “What’s a pretty little lass doing with my son?” I smiled at the humor in his voice that reflected in his eyes, like a bright memory returning. “He’s upstairs, in the shower. He seemed to have something on his mind.” He said the last bit more to himself than to me. He looked at me curiously, “What’s your name?”

         “Oh, I’m sorry,” I reached a hand out to him, “forgive my being rude, I’m Charlotte.”
H touched my hand and turned and I assumed he was leading me, mentally.

         “Come Charlotte, have some tea to warm up before you catch consumption.” I thanked him and noticed the faint noise of the shower above, sounding as if it were raining upstairs. Mr. Owen fiddled with the kettle and eventually there was hot tea…for three.

         I heard footsteps behind me and turned to see Ashley with a towel around his waist. I could tell that he was blushing furiously inside, as he did not know I was there. He mumbled a little and nodded to us both before disappearing into the dark hallway. He thundered up the stairs. I turned and his father, smiling knowingly, stood up and, with his tea and a newspaper I’d never noticed, he went out of the room and into the den, closing the door.

         This is when I fully took in the sad kitchen. It looked as though it had tried to be more than it was, and was now tired. With its pale and peeling yellow walls and rusting appliances, what had once been a place built only for the lower of the class in the middle, was now fading into less.

         I felt a tap on my shoulder and there stood Ashley. H was fully dressed, but his hair was still dripping. This time, however, I remembered my reason for my visit. “Ash, looked at this.”

         “My mother called me ‘Ash’,” he said it almost inaudibly. I looked down at my feet and shyly handed him the crumpled paper from my pocket. He noticed the paper and read it. He slowly smiled, “We’re on to something.” He was about to pocket it but I stopped him by putting my hand over his. He handed me the paper and I put it in my pocket. A sudden thought struck him, “We need- Charlotte!” I snapped from a reverie of girlish thoughts and looked at him, “We need to finish these poems. It’ll unlock the key to every Munthions’ truth.” This could have been true and I considered the thought. If dad couldn’t finish the poems, who better than his daughter and her boy- her friend? The girlish thoughts were revving up again.

         I slowly nodded to him. I agreed, we could continue writing the poems.


III

         Months progressed and we completed a poem a month. We soon had all but November. That was an important Month. It was the month between my parent’s Months: The Divider, and it was also the Month Ashley and I met. I attempted, but all of my dreadful poetry was thrown to waste. I was too emotional and specific. I felt that he should write it. He would not, for some reason of which he refused to tell me. I decided not to pry, everyone has a side of secrecy. It was only the first of November, the feel was not there yet.

         I had decided one thing: November was sweet, simple, exotic and complicated at the same time. November was like a first kiss, easy and pleasant to reminisce but when it happened, it was breath-taking and bizarre. I had to tell Ashley. He was now sixteen and no I knew I could trust him because no joke amongst the boys lasted for over a week; they tired quickly. I still did not fully trust him, I was being silly and girlish, but I could not stop clinging to my father’s last memoirs. I only trusted Ashley 93% of the time.

         Although I could not fully trust, the girlish thoughts always intruded my brain when I thought of him, like a motley of sunlight through leaves in a forest. The thoughts would not stop and I tried to hide and busy myself with other things because, surely, Ashley had no interest in me.

         My mother was never well as when my father was alive and I worried, considerably. Ashley wanted to help but I pushed him away. It was too delicate. He tried again, over and over like a carousel, but I never let him come close. The rumors were worse than ever. I was not in a stress.

         On the second day in November I, again, went to Ashley’s graying house and I lightly knocked. I waited but no one answered. Perhaps, I was too quiet, I rang the doorbell. This time Ashley answered. Why was I always lost in his eyes whenever I saw him lately? I pushed the girlish thought out of my mind because I could feel a wave of new thoughts coming. Andy opened the door and I walked into the entryway, admiring the archways that I had not noticed before.

         We went into his room upstairs and locked the door, as not to be interrupted. I put my mini bag on the carpet and took out its contents. We started to brainstorm ideas for November.

         Sweet November, how dearly I love you so. You are a time of rest and happiness. You surprise me, you’re simple but at the same time hold a sacred sense of quietness. Your irk my senses and I can never leave you. I shall love you forever.

         Those were ideas from my very soul that I could put into November.. I would put more detail into the poem, and because of that, I was too emotional.

         Ashley sat on his bed and then laid back; arms stretched, eyes closed. He was thinking. I stayed on the floor with crossed legs. “I can’t think of anything, Ash-“ I cut myself off because I was going to say “Ash”, him mother was the only one who could call him that, it was sacred. His eyes opened, startled as if he had seen a spirit, but then he stood and hovered over me. I looked up and his eyes softened and were gentle.

         “You sound like my mother,” he barely whispered.

         “You sound like my dad,” I confessed. I stood and almost hugged him when the doorknob started rattling. His father’s voice sounded, requesting the dishes to be washed. “Go,” I sighed and nodded towards the door, “I’ll be here…working.” I had to use “working” as a cover up. I meant to say “waiting”.

         A little while later, he returned. By now, I had decided to finish the ‘Poesies of the Seasons’ and I was going to have to be the one to complete them. I merely acknowledged his presence but paused because it was Mr. Owen. I was writing with curiosity, but I waited for him to tell me what was going on.

         He sat on the bed and sighed, “Go downstairs.” I slowly stood and half-trotted and half-slumped to the lower level. I was anxious, scared and excited and nervous about whatever happened. I arrived on the landing and went into the kitchen. There Ashley stood, smiling, with a torch, it was then I knew we were going for a walk.

         We walked outside hand-in-hand and the girlish thoughts returned, once again. Adrenaline shot through my veins as he led me to the main street. The sun was going to its bed to rest, though we were merely waking up. The pubs were at full blast and the lights were lightening the dark alleyways and streets. We walked until we reached a boutique called Samantha’s Celtic Store of Books. Ashley opened the door for me as would a gentleman, and we wandered in.
There was a motley of books on the shelves. We looked around in books and novels, all were loosely tied with the Irish, the Gaelic, and the Celtic. We did not find anything to help us but I bought a ring for my left index finger, it was a silver Celtic design with emerald-colored jewels trapped in its weaving confines.

         Ashley walked me home and I was left with no ideas and girlish thoughts. I went upstairs and was about to turn to my room but I heard a cough. Mother. My mother was still ill and I was only thinking three things: My father, the ‘12 Months’, and Ashley. My mother was nowhere on the list. She had no one, nothing; all because I was leaving her to the dead. It was not fair…to anyone. I decided that Ashley would have to come to my house and I would have to tend to mother more, from then on.

         Ashley was gracious enough to visit and help but November was still as sweet of a mystery as a secret admirer. As we would further indulge in conversation over November and school, rumours and psychology, our lives and my mother; we would crunch on cookies and politely sip our tea, getting up in alternating intervals to see if mother was okay.

         This one time was different. Ashley and I were laughing together when I noticed I was a few minutes delayed to assist my mother. I departed from Ashley with a lightening joke and sought out for my mother in the next room. I entered and offered her tea, but she quieted me and I sat down. She attempted to speak but interrupted herself with her own coughs and hacks. When she had finished, she successfully tried again. “Charlotte. Char, I wanted you to know something, and you can tell Ashley if you please since I can see even from in here that you’re fond of him.” I blushed, but appreciated her reception from so far away. “But I must inform you, I will get better.” Inside me were snakes writhing with anxious relief. “I may never be the same…depression’s a terrible thing.” I some of the relief escape me like lack of air from staying under a swimming pool for too long. I should have caught on, all of the psychology books but turned a blind eye to every thing except for astrology and the way the mind works.
I looked at my mother in a new light. She, however, continued, “I have been selfish, I could only think of how I lost a husband, but you, Char…losing a father. I can guess that in both of us, something died with him. I want you to help me. Get me out of this room.” My mother tried to rise up but I ran to help her settle again.

         “Mother, your illness!” I inquired, but she shook her head.

         “Haven’t you heard the phrase ‘Mental illness can have physical effects’?” I nodded at her clever remark and then thought of something. I pulled away the comforter and helped my mother out of bed. My mother spoke again, “Ashley is a very cute lad, isn’t?” I blushed and my mother chuckled. Her tone suddenly became serious, “I first want to go to your father’s grave, but we’ll do that at another time.” I nodded and led her into the next room where Ashley was sitting.

         He stood when we entered and helped me with my mother and behind her back mouthed ‘I need to talk to you.’ I nodded and went into the kitchen, signaling Ashley to follow. “We are making you a spot of tea, mother,” I called and she responded her gratefulness.

         “I just wanted to let you know,” he started once we were in the kitchen with the door closed, “I’m glad you let me in the family circle. You know-” he said quickly as if not to give himself too much credit, “I always was interested in astrology.” He smiled, his fringe fell into his eyes. Brown and blue contrasted beautifully. “I never told you about my mother, I thought I’d tell you something about me.” His crooked smile crowned his pale face, I could not help but notice his eyes soften as he looked at me. “My mother, as you know, was a Wiccan. She grew up in Roscommon in a family that would only consist of her mother. Her father died when she was two and her mother raised her. Her mother did not believe a god would let her husband pass away…go quietus. She sought for something to believe in and found refuge in her Irish roots of Celtic or pagan religions and stayed planted on Wicca, my mother caught on and stayed in Wicca until her death. She had a heart attack.” I gasped, I could not believe…

         “My father-”

         “-Died the same way,” he finished my sentence and I remembered once telling him. I sighed and finished preparing the tea with honey and turned back to him, as I was exiting.

         “Thank you for telling me.”

         The rest of the evening went on casually and I said good-bye to Ashley and tucked myself into bed on the couch because she did not want to go into what she called the ‘Depressed Room’ for awhile. I went to my room upstairs and stayed up late in the night, thinking.

         Tomorrow I have school. It won’t be so bad, Ashley will be there, he’s on my side, he makes my days better. Not only my days but also my life. Shut off the girlish thoughts. I will one day tell him how I feel. One day.

         With that…I fell asleep.

         The next day in school I drew in my note books and wrote random notes and facts I was writing all day until something magical happened. I completed the ‘Poesies of the Seasons’ in my French notebook. November, sweet November, I have finished with you. I read it over and over again in my head and dreamt of Ashley’s reactions. His pale face and crooked smile, his King’s Blood Blue eyes soft and proud. I read the poem again:


November
Love is found and never lost
The earth of God begins to frost
Time dwiddles on and on again
Loneliness may or mayn’t be your friend

Turn off the lights, glory will come
No excitement, the Period of Rest has begun
Stay calm, real and true
There is little else to do

Love is begotten and cherished
Time never seems to perish
Sweet November, stay with me
You are my own, personal glee


         The bell rang and I galloped to Ashley’s house. I would often meet him there if we missed eache other at school that day. I burst through the gate and ran up the cold, gray steps. I was about to pound on the door when something stopped me. I crumbled down and tears flowed unstoppably from my eyes. Evicted. Ashley was gone. Forever.

         It took me several days to recover from that terrible blow. I would never forget his last gift to me. His mother. Something his soul guarded from prying, shallow seekers. I was forever grateful, forever sorrowed.

         About ten days later, I received several words from Ashley. A letter. I skipped stairs to my room and locked the door. I held it close to my chest, near my heart and cried. I knew his handwriting. I slowly ripped the sealed envelope. The letter smelled of lilacs, I shook the letter out and a dried lilac and letter fell onto my bed. I smiled and picked up the letter, it read:


Dear Char,

         I heard your mother calling you that, so I adopted the name. It fits you. We were evicted from our home that last night, the one when I told you about my mother.

         I will have to be honest with you and say that I heard what your mother told you. I eavesdropped, it was a minor crime and I still feel guilty, but it was not out of guilt that I told you about my mother, you will have to trust me. Believe me when I say that I had wanted to tell you of her before, but I never felt the time was right. I felt so apart of your family that I thought I should share a bit of myself since you shared all of yours. It is not fair. I did not know of the eviction until I got home and my father put a suitcase in my hand. I write this as we drive though the rain to our new home in the West. That is all I know. I will mail you again when we arrive to our new address.

I want you to know a few things: I’ll never be the same. You changed me. I’ll write, maybe visit. One day. I’ll come back for you. Men are so full of broken promises. I wish the pieces would make a whole. Remember me, Char.
I will love you forever,
Ash


         Teardrops stained his beautiful writing. I wanted to be there with him, but I merely stopped my crying and thought a response in my head. I love you too, come back for me, I will never forget you…Ash.

         I turned the envelope over, there was no address. Love is found and never lost. I stood and stared at my reflection. My caramel skin and dark chocolate hair and eyes were a contrast to his pale skin, dark hair and blue eyes. What a pair we made. What a pair my parents made: The Irishman and the Black. I dearly loved both so closely to my it made my ribs ache familiarly at the thought of my father’s death. The grave. I needed to take my mother to the grave. I felt that Ashley should also be buried there in the grave. What a pair we made, my mother and I, both lost the ones we loved dearly and so passionately.

         To those who love October will always stay dear.