Chapter 1
The Wrinkled Notebook
Robert Sytnick
Oct/2020
Time becomes still. The air is pungent and stale as though afraid of the secrets it once held. My hollow chest echoes from within with each lonely heartbeat. Emptiness slides its way to the bottom of my stomach, an upheaval churns. Silence reigns, a single tear slowly slides down my cheek, allowing my emotions to tug at my heartstrings.
The dried crusted tear embedded onto my cheek suddenly is washed away as a stream of uncontrolled aching pain gushes from my eyes. A cold chill, clings to my spine as I watch a handful of black soil splatter onto the flowers that rest on Grandpa’s casket. The preacher places the bible under his arm and brushes away the soil sticking to his sweaty palms. Bowing his head toward the grave, he mutters a prayer, then crosses himself. His silent stare cuts through my youthful exterior—my grief weaves a chain around my broken heart. My breathing stalls as I fall to pieces and my eyes struggle to look away.
The preacher raises his wooden cross toward the Heavens in the midday sun as he chants a prayer. No choir of Angels come forth to sing and pray this day. Only the distant sound of a whippoorwill breaks the tranquil silence as it calls to its mate.
My cold hand wipes away the last tears of anguish as I look down at the lonely grave, crossing myself. My numbing legs have lost their will. The calm silence is interrupted when a loose stone drops onto the casket as I sluggishly turn—the resonating sound of the pebble on the oak wood echoes in my soul. I’m devastated, only hanging on by binding threads to distant memories; my hollow-core weeps.
My fingers rake the graveyard dirt closer to myself, then sprinkle the soil onto the casket. My mind is praying, but I can’t hear a word I’m saying. Momentarily, my subconscious escapes as the past begins to replay in my mind. The vividness of unfolding scenes holds its grip on me; I am oblivious to my surroundings, falling deeper and deeper into turmoil.
The trembling hand that paints black and white memories, bringing me solace, reverts to my childhood. My name is Timothy; I’m nine years old, a second-generation Canadian. I was born in 1943 in a prairie town hospital. My mother and father were of Ukrainian descent. I never played baseball or felt the touch of my father’s hand. My only memory of my father is the picture on Mom’s nightstand. Mom said he died serving his country in World War II, liberating the world from Fascism, whatever that is.
Mom became withdrawn after Dad’s death. Grandpa and Grandma insisted we move from town to the farm. We were now country folk, which carried a stigma of its own, never mind being Ukrainian. The country school was a living hell for a boy with an accent and struggling with the English language. I came from school with a bloodied nose many a day, only to find harsh reality when I got home and Grandma’s crusty hand across my backside. Growing stronger with each school beating, I learned to hide my pain and wash the blood into the creek before going home.
My rowdy first year at country school eased as I passed into my second year. The class became united; we overlooked our ethnic backgrounds, perhaps not from necessity, but a found friendship. English, Ukrainian, French and Metis children became one, a band of brothers and sisters, walking together in all directions. Our compassion and differences became our strength. A lesson taught in the old country school of life.
Mom’s painful retreat from life scarred my empty soul. I knew her as my Mom but seldom saw her. She passed in her sleep, a broken woman, in that second year of my schooling. The neighbourhood rumour was that she died from the dreaded tuberculosis disease, but Grandpa knew better. That night when I sat on his knee by the radio in his favourite chair, he told me she died of a broken heart. That was the first and only time I saw him cry. As time passed and I grew older, I came to know what Grandpa meant by a broken heart.
