St. Catherine's Home for Lost Souls

I woke up to the sound of the Mourning Dove song. A simple question from that soft breasted bird: who. . . who. . . who. I don’t answer back, they already know me. Even though it’s only early morning the room is already glowing with light. It’s a small humble place with walls and ceiling of smooth white stucco, and the bed sheets I lay in are made of crisp white cotton. To my left is an old oak door that leads to the hall, and to the left of the door is an old oak wardrobe with all my possessions. At the foot of my bed below a thin window, rests a small pine desk with a chair. To the left of the desk is a door-less doorway leading to the balcony. To the left of the balcony doorway is a porcelain sink with a small pocket mirror sitting on the windowsill above. If anyone else had just woke up in this room they might have mistaken it as a little cell in Heaven.

The door-less balcony now drew my attention. From here I can just see the tops of the trees and the pale morning sky. I feel the cool morning breeze on my arms and face, and I smell the mix of lemon trees and smoking wood from the yard. I roll out of bed and place my feet on the cool stone floor, crossing the cell to the sink in the corner. As if waiting for me, the sink is full of clear fresh water. A little splash on the neck and face, and I step to the balcony doorway to watch the sun rise.

This place is called St. Catherin’s Home for Lost Souls and is run by Grandma Iris. People like to say, being so close to the sea, that she was once married to a pirate and inherited his fortune after he passes. I like stories like these, they make life more exciting. And even if Grandma Iris never kissed a marauder, I still like to think her past is as deep as the sea itself. Like other Lost Souls Grandma Iris lets me stay here, and like other Lost Souls I don’t know how I got here. I don’t remember where I’m from or anyone I know. I remember my name is Hector, but I guess things as deep as names aren’t easily forgotten. Everyone who arrives at St. Catherin’s receives their little black book, and Grandma Iris tells them to write in it every day. What we remember, who we know, how we came to be here; anything from the past. My little black book is sitting on my desk, open to where I was writing last night. We are told to write about what we remember, but recently the only thing I’ve been writing about is her. Not Grandma Iris, but rather Cecilia.

Cecilia, like me, is a Lost Soul. I had been at St. Catherin’s for only a few weeks when she arrived. I first saw her when I was sitting in the yard, in the shade of the lemon tree orchard. She sat under another tree and started to hum a song. She had only just arrived a few days before, and had even worse memory than me. She has dark brown hair, so brown it’s almost black, and olive brown skin that says bellissima. And like any great romantic, her eyes held the world; deep green pools of light. I asked her to dance, I don’t know why, but she said yes and we waltzed through the grass to an imaginary ballet.

There are hot people and beautiful people. But Cecilia, she is Beauty.

So now I don’t write about my day, or what I remember from the past, I only write love poems to the beautiful Cecilia. I turn from the balcony and lean on the pine desk. Looking over my little black book, I read the poem that I wrote last night.

There once was a flower, of beauty beyond compare.

And only the bravest dare looks for it, blossoms afar so fare.

To find such treasure, to cure Lost Soul, a hero of heart must stand.

To fight the dark forgetful night and cross the sandy land.

And such hero will come, to find his honor, wrapped in silver light.

Dew on leaf, sweet smell of life, sits flower of greatest might.

And taking tender peddle, the hero of old will find,

Lost Soul still breaths it’s love to me, killing the shadow in mind.

Name such flower that holds this cure, so I may journey to find her there.

Her name is Cecilia, greatest of all, beauty beyond compare.

It is good but not good enough. I only want to write the best for her, and this seems to me to not be my best.

KNOCK. KNOCK.

I close my little black book and turn to answer the door. In five quick steps I reach the oak panel door and open it to find Grandma Iris. Being two feet shorter than me, I look down to see my benefactor in a navy-blue dress and sandals, holding a thick yellow envelope.

“Good morning Grandma Iris, I was just getting ready for the day. Already it looks like it will be a good one. Is breakfast ready?”

“Good morning my Lost Soul. Yes, it does look like it will be a good day. I pray a warm one too, these old bones needing some warming up. Breakfast is not ready yet, but I do have the cooks mixing up some porridge. I am here thought because you received a package in last night’s mail.” This is unexpected. I don’t know who it could be from, I don’t remember anyone before St. Catherin’s. With a little smile she gave me the thick yellow envelope.

“Thank you, Grandma Iris.” With another little smile and nod, she shuffles down the hall to the stairs. Closing the door and crossing the room, I sit at my desk to open the mysterious package. The envelope has my name and the address of St. Catherin’s on it but no return address. I tear the seal and open the envelope to find a stack of bills, and by the looks of it, more money than I’ve ever had. There’s a folded note with the money.

Dear Hector,

This is your uncle Oscar. I got a telegram about your condition and thought you might have died like your mother; she would have wanted me to watch out for you. However, I am no family man and will not care for you: your mother knew that well. But for her sake, I had to do something. Included in this letter 20,000 dollars. Do not ask for anymore. Do not contact me.

Good Luck,

Oscar M.

I’m cold, should I be happy or sad? The knowledge of my past is now documented, the reason for my staying at St. Catherin’s has ended. But now, my past is stained. My mom is dead. My uncle has abandoned me. I have just been given the bitter key of freedom. I look out though the doorway of the balcony and finish watching the Sun rise.

I slowly get warmer with the rise of the Sun. I look at the note, I look at the money, then I look at my little black book. I think of Cecilia. Revelation strikes me, I am no longer a Lost Soul! The past is defined, the future awaits. I have my little black book and my money. What will I do? I will go to Cecilia, I will give her my poem (even if it’s not good enough), I will ask her to leave St. Catherin’s, and I will ask her to marry me. I jump up from my chair, scooping up my little black book and the envelope of money. Leaving my room, I run down the hall and stairs to the dining room where all the Lost Souls eat. Cecilia is standing in line with the rest of the Lost Souls.

“Cecilia! Come with me into the yard, I need to show you something.” I take her hand and we walk out into the morning. We walk through the yard and I take her to where we danced under the lemon trees.

“What did you want to show me Hector?” Saying nothing I take out my little black book, open it to the poem, and hand it to her. I watch her face as she reads. He green eyes move from word to word, lips twitching as if the very words wish to spring from her mouth. She smiles when she finishes the poem. “Thank you, Hector! No one has even written such lovely words for,” but before she can finish, I say,

“Cecilia, I love you. Will you marry me?” She stops smiling and now looks worried.

“Hector, why do you ask me such a question? What has happened? Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m okay. In fact, I am more than okay! I’ve just learned about my past, and I’m no longer a Lost Soul of St. Catherin’s! Plus, I have the money to leave this place. I love you Cecilia and want to marry you. Will you leave with me?” Looking into her eyes I see sadness where I hoped to see joy.

“If what you say is true Hector, I cannot go with you. You see, I am still a Lost Soul. You can leave this place, but I cannot.”

“But I love you.”

“And I love you too Hector, but I cannot leave yet. You are free and you must go. When my Soul is free, I will be with you. Goodbye Hector.” And with a kiss on the cheek, she went back inside St. Catherin’s.

“Goodbye Cecilia.” I stand under the lemon trees. She loves me. She kissed me! My mind is racing as I turn and walk thought the orchard. I try to distract myself by counting my steps, but everything beautiful captures my mind. The Mourning Doves fly over, the green grass shines with dew, the lemon trees’ leaves sway with the breeze, and I think, how lucky am I to be loved by Beauty. I reach the edge of St. Catherin’s by the tall brick wall. I jump the wall and my feet land on the dirt road. I look both ways before I take out my little black book. I write.

I am a Free Soul; I choose my road ahead.

I journey from here to there; watch the path I tread.

I leave for now, I say goodbye, so long great flower of love.

That kiss still burns my cheek, I’ll be back my beautiful dove.