Pack up your Sorrows

           Miles harrumphed, which sounded like the sound a donkey makes when they want their morning hay, and said, “Quite right, and no surprise. I always told Harold you were exceptional.”

            Miss Kitty smiled, a wide and glorious smile that exposed her beautiful teeth.

            “Besides which,” Miles said, “we have important matters to discuss, and face-to-face communication is always more reliable, more efficient, and more proper for such interactions.”

            “Quite right,” Miss Kitty echoed.

            “I have to pack up my sorrows and begin a new adventure,” Miles said.

            Miss Kitty’s smile evaporated; her lips became drawn, like the line on a dry-erase board.

            “I need to go home,” Miles said. “To Yorkshire.”

            Miss Kitty sat down on the steps leading to Harold’s room in the attic. Tears appeared on her cheeks like freckles, and her sobs soon turned into hiccups.

            Miles climbed down the table and limped over to Miss Kitty.

            “Harold taught me about forgiveness,” Miles said, looking up into Miss Kitty’s eyes. “I have a brother I need to make amends to, and me mum, well, I’m feeling mighty old, and she’s probably feeling even older. It’s time for me to stop running. You do understand, don’t you, Miss Kitty?”

            Miss Kitty scooped Miles up and placed him on her lap. “Of course, Miles. I do understand. But I will miss you, and I haven’t come to terms with missing Harold, and I expected bright lights or angels or something. You know?”

            “Miss Kitty, I can assure you that Harold has found peace, and I like to believe that he is with his lovely Lilith. You will always carry a piece of Harold in your heart, and so, he will always be with you, hmm.”
            Miss Kitty had been forced to confront Harold's death, and at least had some time to prepare for his departure. And she had secretly counted on having Miles around to help her trudge through the grieving process.

            “But I miss him. And now, I'll miss you. What am I going to do without my musical boys?"
             Miles scratched his ear. His tail twitched and acted like a snake in heat, so Miles grabbed the tip. "I'll text you every day, Miss Kitty."
            "But what about you, Miles?" Miss Kitty said, stifling a scream that perched in the back of her throat like a rock.  "Will you come back?”

            Miles smiled. “Oh yes, I plan on returning, Miss Kitty. Harold and I have set it up so that when I return, I’ll be able to run in this field with Miss Patches. The cabin is yours, Miss Kitty. And you need to take good care of it, because in my next life, I’m going to come to you as a horse.”
           Miss Kitty's brow wrinkled, and her nose twitched. She did not expect to receive the gift of a house. Fiercely independent, and a little overwhelmed, she wanted to run home and hide in her teeny-tiny bedroom with the leaky roof, the generator that often refused to start, and the long-list of chores that seemed to have a life of its own, always growing taller and fatter. She loved Harold's cabin, and Miss Patches could spend her leisure time in the meadow, frolicking in the grass, rather than standing in the coral lined with dirt and weeds. The committee that lived rent free in Miss Kitty's head pounded the mahagony meeting table, and for once, they all agreed that Miss Kitty should take advantage of this change in venue, and move to Harold's cabin.

            Miss Kitty nodded her head. “Patches would like that; she gets lonely. We’ll take care of the house, Miles, don’t worry. And I’ll be waiting for you to appear; a beautiful painted gelding, or perhaps, as Miles the mule."

Cool Breeze

          Miss Kitty had hoped for a flash of light, angels floating above the white pine, fiddles and harps, or a visual of Harold and Lilith walking up a golden stairway to heaven, arms entwined. But after Miss Kitty and Miles finished reading “Luke Havergal” for Harold the ghost, the red winged blackbird cawed three times and then, flew away. There was no flash of light, no hallelujahs from an angel choir, no music, and no golden stairway to heaven.

            Miles, perched on Miss Kitty’s shoulder, stifled the tears that longed to flow down his handsome snout and flood the meadow. A cool breeze cleared the clouds from the sky, painting the horizon in an assortment of blues, and the grass, dry and yellow, looked like it had been brushed by God. Together, the two friends trudged back to the silent cabin. The flowers on the deck had withered and died, and Miss Kitty had already harvested and dried the herbs in the front yard garden.

            Miss Kitty walked up the sturdy steps and into the clean and refurbished house. Miles scampered down from her shoulders, and jumped on to the oak table, sitting on top of the deed to the house. “Miss Kitty,” he said, standing tall in his red jacket and looking important, “You need to see this document.”

            Miss Kitty’s eyes grew big, because suddenly, I know I’m not supposed to say that, but really, it’s quite late in the evening and I have tears in my eyes and just can’t focus long enough to come up with a descriptive text describing how wide Miss Kitty’s eyes grew, it was as if they had turned from dimes into half dollars in the wink of an eye, and Miss Kitty exclaimed, “Miles, I understood what you said.”

Go to the Western Gate

        

         Miles pulled out the remnants of a pink handkerchief and wiped the tears from his eyes. He cleared his throat, looking up into Miss Kitty’s eyes. She nodded her head, and withdrew a sheet of paper from her pocket.

            The sun, drooping below the tree line like a melting ice cream cone, painted the sky in the shades of fall—orange, crimson, yellow, and sienna. A red winged blackbird, his shoulders gleaming like the lapels on the jacket of a general, sat on the tip-top of the white pine, a silent observer.

            Together, Miles and Miss Kitty read “Luke Havergal” by Edwin Arlington Robinson out loud to honor the bridging of Harold the Ghost’s passing from one dimension into the next.

Luke Havergal, by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal,

There where the vines cling crimson on the wall,

And in the twilight wait for what will come.

The leaves will whisper there of her, and some,

Like flying words, will strike you as they fall;

But go, and if you listen she will call.

Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal—

Luke Havergal.

No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies

To rift the fiery night that’s in your eyes;

But there, where western glooms are gathering,

The dark will end the dark, if anything:

God slays Himself with every leaf that flies,

And hell is more than half of paradise.

No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies—

In eastern skies.

Out of a grave I come to tell you this,

Out of a grave I come to quench the kiss

That flames upon your forehead with a glow

That blinds you to the way that you must go.

Yes, there is yet one way to where she is,

Bitter, but one that faith may never miss.

Out of a grave I come to tell you this—

To tell you this.

There is the western gate, Luke Havergal,

There are the crimson leaves upon the wall.

Go, for the winds are tearing them away,—

Nor think to riddle the dead words they say,

Nor any more to feel them as they fall;

But go, and if you trust her she will call.

There is the western gate, Luke Havergal—

Luke Havergal.

The Feel of Fall

          Miss Kitty rode Miss Patches to the cabin, relishing the feel of fall on her skin. The air, bordering between the seasons, tasted like raspberries, and the leaves on the trees pretended to be birds, spinning and twirling to the ground. The ground, a kaleidoscope of color, reminded her of the quilt her grandmother had made just for her when she was a child.

            Miss Patches, eager to reach the meadow, where she knew she could still find tasty tidbits of sweet grass, tried to break into a trot, but Miss Kitty held her back, patting her on the neck and telling her to walk. Miss Kitty was in no hurry this early evening. She knew that when they arrived at the cabin, she would have to bundle up Harold’s bones and bury them beneath the white pine tree.

            Harold, sitting on the deck, waved when they arrived. He had on his wedding outfit, complete with a daisy pinned to his lapel. Miles, he looked proud in his red jacket, perched on Harold’s shoulder.

            Miss Kitty dismounted, took off Patches saddle and bridle, and led her into the meadow, where Miss Patches immediately rolled in the dry grass. Miles scurried off Harold’s shoulder and followed Miss Kitty and Patches. Miles, amazed at the horse’s actions, admired the horse’s grace and athleticism. When Patches completed her third roll, Miles clapped his hands.

            Miss Kitty leaned down and picked Miles up. Together, they walked back to the cabin, and trudged up the stairs to the attic. Harold, positively aglow, gave his friends a hug, and then, without a word, sunk into the bones lying on the bed.

Miss Kitty wrapped the skeleton in a clean sheet, and carried it down the stairs, out the door, into the field, and to the grave where Lilith waited for him. When she placed Harold’s skeleton into the grave, his bones wrapped themselves around the bones of his wife, and then, all was silent.

Trudging

          

  
           Miles, a master at untangling computer messes and dealing with unsatisfying and frustrating paperwork, finished typing the documents that would make Miss Kitty the sole owner of the cabin at the top of Marijuana Knob. Harold and Miles had agreed that a quick deed was the best way to handle the arrangements, and a lawyer had already come by the cabin and notarized the deed to the house.

            Harold, exhausted from materializing a full hour in the presence of a lawyer, faded slowly. Soon, the only sign that he was still present was the rocking of his favorite chair.

            “Can you call Rex Mayo and ask him if he can repair the fencing around the pasture,” Harold said.

            “Absolutely,” Miles said, moving to his iPhone and sending Rex a text message.

            “And perhaps hire him as a property manager, so he’ll be on call for Miss Kitty after we’re gone.”

            Miles looked at the invisible chair, which creaked just like Harold’s bony knees. Miles could feel Harold’s presence fading. The air tasted like acorns, and the air seemed to glisten like the frost on a fall morning.
           "And tell him we need a work truck with a plow."
           Miles, surprised that at the clarity of Harold's thoughts and his generousity in making sure that the cabin was set up for Miss Kitty, Miss Patches, and eventually, for Miles in his next life, rubbed his nose, pretending to sneeze in order to swipe the tears out of his beady black eyes.

            “I’ve begun transferring the money to your favorite organizations and nonprofits,” Miles said, “Angelsover Sandpoint, Kinderhaven, Festival at Sandpoint, NAMI, Bonner Partners inCare Clinic Inc, Pend Oreille Arts Council, and the Panhandle Animal Shelter.”

            “Thank-you, Miles,” Harold said. “And you’ve transferred some money to your account, and to Miss Kitty?”

            “Yes, of course,” Miles replied.

            “I’m so tired,” Harold said. “I think I’ll trudge upstairs and take a nap. Miles, I have one more request. Could you read ‘Luke Havergal’ when you bury me next to Lilith?”

            Miles, surprised that Harold remembered the poem, was speechless. He nodded his head yes, his eyes blurring with more wretched tears.

            “Oh Miles,” Harold said. “Parting is such sweet sorrow. You have been an amazing friend.”

            The chair stopped creaking, the smell of acorns disappeared, and the air felt dry.

Morning

          Harold sat down on the creaking pine chair that some idiot had painted black. The chair wouldn’t have held a normal man of Harold’s stature, but Harold was a ghost, and even though he was fully materialized and dressed in a fine suit, he didn’t weigh anything.

            Miles climbed up his makeshift ladder of books, scurried on to the top of the kitchen table, and opened his iPad. “Your finances are all in order,” Miles said, “and you are very much in the green.”

            Harold tapped his fingers on the tabletop. “We can transfer the money easily enough, right?”

            “The money can be transferred with a swipe of my tail,” Miles said. “But the house will take some major shenanigans.”

            “Yes, the lawyers and paper pushers won’t understand when I leave the house to a pack rat.”

            Miles rubbed his hands together. He thought that Harold would leave the house to Miss Kitty and her lovely horse.

            “That’s very gracious of you, Harold. But I plan on going back to England. It’s time for me to face my past. I think you should leave the house to Miss Kitty.”

            “Oh,” Harold said. “But who will take care of Miss Kitty?”

            Miles laughed, which sounded like a cat sneezing.

            “I think Miss Kitty can take care of herself, Harold. And someday, I plan on returning as a horse. I’ll live with Miss Kitty and Patches, munch grass, and run with the wind.”

            Harold looked at his packrat friend. “Well, I guess anything is possible. But I see you more as a Mule than a horse. Yes, Miles the Mule. I like that.”

Dawn

          The morning dawned clear and beautiful. The leaves outside seemed to dance with the wind, acting as if they were on center stage, while the greening of the world began to fade to shades of crimson and gold.

            Harold walked down the stairs, dressed in a business suit. Miles, he had moved to his favorite hidey hole, perched next to his autographed copy of “Season of the Snake,” washed his face with his packrat hands.

            “Good morning, Miles,” Harold said.

            “Is it a good morning, Harold?”

            Harold scratched the top of his head. His hair, fully materialized, was a receding matt of gray. He removed two bits of toilet paper stuck to his chin, relishing the feel of a freshly shaved chin.

            “Miles, do I look around 58? I need to look like I would look if I had, well, you know, lived. We have a lot of work to do, and not much time to do it in.”

            Miles, surprised by the serious tone Harold utilized, sat up tall and straight. “Yes, Harold, you look splendid and age appropriate.”

            Harold smiled, which exposed two dimples and laugh lines that circled his mouth. Miles thought that at one time, Harold would have been considered a very handsome man.

            “Did you cut yourself shaving,” Miles asked.

            Harold laughed, a low rumble that reminded Miles of the sound Miss Patches made when she found a totally excellent clump of grass.

            “I haven’t shaved for a long time, Miles. I’m surprised I didn’t cut my head off.”

            Miles laughed, only because he didn’t want to cry. Oh, he thought, the world of humans. What would I do without them?