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Diary of KCC
"Dr. McGwier, call the operator. Dr. McGwier, call the operator, please." The overhead intercom system gently said. The hospital staff worked quietly and efficiently at their assigned tasks of caring for their patients.
Room 608 was guarded by a police officer, who stood vigilantly outside the door. Inside, a man sat in a chair well worn with age and use. The brown upholstery had developed cracks, exposing the tan sponge used to pad the seat. Many visitors had been in this room, sitting beside loved ones such as this man did.
He held a book, worn with age. The edges were curled, the binding broken from being bent backwards, allowing the author to write his thoughts and feelings. The author had been gone for two months now; leaving behind him a son who he had thought lost. A son who now maintained vigil over his other father.
Tears came to the young man's eyes as he read from his father's journal. Kwai Chang Caine had written many times during his and Peter's separation, when each had thought the other dead. Peter read from the journal marked "Sept. 1979" to Paul Blaisdell, his foster father, who slept quietly in the bed, recovering from a gun shot wound he had received a day earlier.
Reading the journal had become a way for Peter to remember Kwai Chang Caine; reading it to Paul helped keep Peter's mind off of revenge for the man whom had shot his mentor and best friend.
It has been a year, my son.
A year without hearing your voice, your questions.
A year without seeing your eyes change color with your ever-changing emotions. Without being able to teach you the way of the Tao, without you knowing how much I miss you, love you.
I look at the sky, a butterfly, a still pond, and imagine I see you or hear your voice. I remember when I told you you asked too many questions. How I would love to hear another one from you now.
The rage I felt inside for Master Dao- for the loneliness he has inflicted upon me and the pain he inflicted upon you before you passed from this world into the next - has slightly diminished. One day, my son, I will forgive him. I do not want my anger to keep me from joining you when it is my turn to leave this life.
He is not worth the eternal separation I would have to endure for the angry thoughts I have had. On the news today, they spoke of a man who killed his wife. It was senseless. He killed her because of drugs. Some said she had already died long ago, that this was expected. She was no more than a statistic that has left behind an infant who will never know his mother's touch again; no, it should not have been expected. Other news had people committing violent acts against others because of anger, hate and retaliation. I have seen these acts myself, on the street. I have seen parents abuse their children in the name of love.
My son, children are not to be abused. Children are to be loved and cherished as an extension of life. A poster, at a restaurant I am working at, says, "A child is God's way of saying the world must go on." Lao Tzu would agree with this.
I was walking through a neighborhood one morning and was stopped by a police officer. Several people were crowded around. Yellow tape separated the crowd from a house. Two lifeless bodies were being carried out and into a hearse. Someone said a son had beaten his parents to death, then attacked his brother and sister, who had been taken to the hospital. I looked into the young man's eyes and saw the hatred and was almost lost in the darkness that has filled his soul.
Life is sacred and, in a world filled with anger and hate, maybe it is better you are not here to witness it.
Peter allowed a tear to roll down his cheek. More tears threatened to do the same. Paul had remained unconscious after surgery to remove the bullet that entered his right shoulder. The doctor had told Peter and Annie that time would tell if the man would regain conciseness.
Laying the book down, Peter slipped his hand under Paul's and gave a gentle squeeze, saying a prayer to both Buddha and God. When the squeeze was returned, Peter was startled. Looking at the hand he held then at the man's face, the threatening tears were unleashed.
Blue eyes met Peter's red rimmed hazel eyes, "You know, you could… a page…where Caine had….a good day."
Peter smiled; knowing Paul was not going to leave him. Peter picked up the diary and flipped through the pages, trying to find a good day in the life of Caine.