The White Pine

           Harold held the letter from Chad in his right hand. Afraid that he would faint, he sat in his rocking chair, and looked out the open front door. Outside, fall gathered its strength, taking its time in bidding summer adieu.

            “Harold,” Miles said. “Old boy, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

            Harold crumpled the letter, and threw it on the floor. “Smack Death killed us both,” Harold said, “And Chad thinks it's all just a bad dream.”

            “The black plague on Smack Death,” Miles said. “And mercy on Chad’s soul.”

            Harold took his head off his shoulders and rubbed his forehead. “Chad’s dying. No surprise, he has AIDS. I told him to stay away from needles, but he never listened to me.”

            Miles inhaled, counted to 7, and exhaled, thinking about the months he had spent with Harold. I’m going to miss this ghost, Miles thought, tears erupting in his packrat eyes.

            “Harold,” Miles said. “Did he inform you of the whereabouts of Lilith’s body, hmm?”

            Harold sobbed, a heart breaking sob that shook the floors of the cabin.

            “Beneath a pine tree my Lilith does lay. To be beside her, my soul does pray.”

            Miles wrinkled his nose, trying to remember the nightmare he had about a white cat. Miles ran to the back of the cabin, scurried up the window ledge, and looked out at the meadow where Patches liked to graze. In the middle of the meadow, one lone white pine towered like a beacon.