A New Blogging Commitment

              A few months ago, I set up my website and made two initial blog posts. Since blogging was new to me and not incorporated into my normal routines, I didn’t get into it with the gusto and fervor that blogging requires. As we approach the end of 2025, I’ve decided to make a blogging commitment for 2026—an early resolution, if you will. Through 2026, I’m going to make two posts monthly, one near the middle of the month and one toward the end. I’m going to comment on my writing journey as my efforts to have my first novel published progress, and I’m going to comment on my process in writing my second novel. And perhaps I’ll just comment on what’s happening on any given day here in sleepy Victoria.

              For my last blog of 2025 and the first blog of my new blogging commitment, I offer you my short story, Come Home. This short story was published in the winter 2024 issue of Island Writer Magazine. It is a story told fully in dialogue, with three characters pairing up to have three conversations. For me, it was an exercise in trying to write three distinct voices while telling a story on two timelines (present day and fifteen years prior).

              Enjoy.

***

Come Home

“It felt like I was under surveillance. Being watched. And I mean for real this time.”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned that. But let’s go back to my question. How do you see yourself?”

“What? Okay, fine! How do I see myself?

“I see myself … trying. I’m struggling here. I don’t think I can answer you. Well, not honestly. So, I guess I see myself as honest. That’s something. I’m aware of my capabilities. My limitations. But awareness, that’s not the same thing as how I see myself, is it?”

“You can define the question however you want. I’m not confining you.”

“So, how do I see myself? Maybe I can’t answer directly because I don’t think I exist, or I don’t think I should exist. I don’t know. Maybe I can try through other’s eyes.

“My father, hah. He certainly sees me, or saw me—hell, I don’t even know if he’s still alive. Doesn’t matter, in any case. We’re past tense. He saw me as violent, no good.

“How do you see me? Drunk, alcoholic, drowning in sorrows, fighting inner demons? Hah! Perhaps I’m just a child who happens to be older than your father? And why are you so interested in me? Am I a rat in a maze to you? You’re probably just helping out one of your friends at the University, I bet. What’s the term they use for people like me? The ‘highly functioning homeless,’ or some bullshit like that? I don’t beg. I don’t steal. I don’t do drugs. I work every day.

“But, well, I do like to drink my dinner. And stay outdoors. Or sometimes stay in a nice shelter like this place of yours.”

“You’re very self-aware. Why can’t you tell me how you see yourself?”

“How I see myself is no more important in the world than how I see you. Or how I see this damn city. Or how I see the fucking Pope. I see it all—you, me, the Pope—through an alcohol induced haze. So I’m sure my opinion just doesn’t matter anyway. I can’t tell you how I see myself because it isn’t important. I’m NOT important. I’m irrelevant.

“I’d like to see myself as a father. I do have a daughter out there, somewhere.

“I had a son. It’s fifteen or sixteen years now since he died. He’s been dead now for more years than he ever was alive. I’d like to see myself as a father, but that would take some real mental gymnastics ‘cus I was a failure as a father.

“I mentioned my daughter.  She’d be twenty-eight or twenty-nine now ...  but it doesn’t matter. I wonder how she sees me, or the memory of me. I often wonder that. Wondering helps my dinners go down smoother, if you know what I mean. Glug, glug, glug.

“How do I see myself? In a thick fog, barefoot, surrounded by broken mirrors, shards all over the ground. Shards reflecting my bloody feet upwards. I see myself cowering. I’ve been dead these past fifteen years.

“My father. Did I mention how he sees me? His phrase—presumed murderer.”

“Why did you come in to see me today?”

“Weren’t we scheduled for today? No! Well, I saw someone today. She reminded me of my wife. But was way too young. Made me think of my daughter.

“She was about fifty feet away, maybe closer. Whatever the distance, it was unbridgeable. But she was … staring at me. Just staring. When she realized I was staring back, she looked away and went about her business. Or pretended to. I kept catching her eye because she kept looking back at me. Like I said earlier, I felt like I was under surveillance.

“I didn’t feel threatened. I felt that I should talk to her, but I couldn’t or wouldn’t and anyhow, I never got the chance. It was eerie, but in a peaceful, calm way, if that’s not too much of a contrast.

“You know, except for you, Archie, I don’t think I’ve had a personal connection in fifteen years. But this girl, this young woman. Well, this was intimate in some way.”

***

“I’m not a psychologist. I’m not sure I can give you what you want. Heck, I’m not even sure what it is you want from me.”

“I really don’t know, either. I guess I just want to find out about him. Well, if it is indeed him, first of all. And if so, how he lives, how he spends his days, how much of a nuisance he is to you or to others. Or, hopefully, how much of a help he might be to you. I just want to get to know him before I meet him. If he is my father, I just want to know what to expect. Thank you for talking to him and, well, for talking to me.”

“I’m just not cut out for this cloak and dagger routine you seem to have going. I run a homeless shelter. I talk to people and people talk to me. That’s it. But, well, he saw you, you know? He saw you watching him. He knew you were watching him even as you pretended to be busy at other things. He thinks he’s under surveillance and, well, he’s right.”

“I am sorry. Sorry for the sneaking around. But it’s been a shock to see him, after all these years. It’s literally been a lifetime. The length of my brother’s entire lifetime and then some. Last time I saw him I was half my age, less than half my age. I’ve thought about him often, wondered about him. But he was dead to us, to Mom and me.

“Not just dead to us but declared dead, legally. Yet here he is. Maybe. Just going day to day pretending the world doesn’t exist or pretending he doesn’t have anyone or maybe he’s just hiding. I don’t know. What I want from you, Archie, is … is … guidance. If this is him, how can I make him not be dead to me? How can I forgive him? Do I even have the right to forgive him or not?”

“I know this is only our second conversation, but I can’t keep meeting surreptitiously like this. I build trust with these men and women down here, on the street. Meeting you the first time was fine, you weren’t connected with anyone. I want to help you. And him. But waiting until the clients have been turned out for the day and then slipping quietly in through a side door? No! I can’t be part of your surveillance and still maintain honest relationships here.”

“I understand. And, again, I’m sorry. This is new for me and, well, quite shocking. The last thing I ever expected when I moved to this city was to see him. We have no family linkages to this island, to this city. Even if he’s hiding, why would he move here?”

“I can’t answer that, as I suspect you know. One thing I can tell you, though, your stories, yours and his, they mesh. When I take into account the passage of time, the hard life he’s lived, how young you were when your brother died, and the tricks memory can play on us. Well, your stories are mirror images.”

“He told you about a son that died?”

“Yes. And that when he saw you watching him, he was reminded of his wife and of his daughter.”

“And the time frame matches?”

“Yes. He lost his son fifteen or sixteen years ago.”

“Did he mention his son’s name, or my name?”

“He mentioned no names, Chloe. You know, in the two years I’ve known him, he’s never even ever told me his own name. The guys around here call him Basil, but I think it’s just a nickname they came up with. Hell, I’ve taken to calling him Basil. I don’t know the nickname’s origin. I think it has something to do with his liking to cook. He helps out in our kitchen a lot.”

“Basil? I can’t think of a better confirmation than that, other than maybe to hear you tell me his actual name. Which is Jacob, by the way, not Basil. His favourite TV show was that British comedy set in a hotel. Basil was the main character, always screwing up and being hectored by his wife. He used to quote the show all the time and, well, we used to watch it together. Yeah. I can understand him retreating into happy memories.”

“Okay. So there’s a very good chance that this is your father. What would you like to do?”

“Meet him. Talk to him. Tell him we love him. Tell him not to be scared. Tell him that I’ve not told Mom about finding him. Tell him that I’ll leave him alone if that’s what he wants.”

“Do you want to meet him here? Do you want me present?”

“No. I think I’ll just join him on that park bench of his. You know, where I’ve been surveilling him.”

“Be careful, you don’t want to spook him. He could disappear with the next wind if he feels cornered. Can I ask how your brother died? You don’t have to tell me. But Basil, or Jacob, told me that his father sees him—Jacob—as violent and a presumed murderer.”

“My brother died in an accident. Or so I’ve been told. I was quite young and likely wasn’t told the whole story at the time. But there was some suspicion since it took a long while for the coroner to provide a conclusive answer to the cause of death. In the interim, suspicion fell on the parents, my parents, as it often does when a child dies suddenly and unexpectedly. And, well, my father might have felt guilty nonetheless, even if he did not cause my brother’s death. A parent’s job, some say their sole job, is to protect their kids.”

“But he was very specific in his reference. He told me that his own father, your grandfather, sees him as a presumed murderer.”

“My Grampy was tender, but easily riled—you know, soft, but a bit of a bear. I’m sure he confronted my father with some choice words. Probably said what Basil quoted. Probably said worse things about, I don’t know, my Mom throwing her lot in with such a loser. Who knows?

“But my father walked away. Left before the coroner’s final report. Just walked away into the Interior mountains. Maybe he’s still walking away, trying to distance himself from those words. Grampy told me when he was in hospice … he said he regretted his role in driving my father away. Basil wouldn’t know that.”

***

“Do you mind if I sit here? I don’t want to disturb you.”

“If you didn’t want to disturb me, you’d sit down without asking. You know, without disturbing me.”

“I’m sorry. I just didn’t want to be rude.”

“There are a number of empty benches. You would definitely not be rude if you chose one of those to sit on, instead of this one. But now I’m being rude, so it is my turn to apologize. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive an old man.”

“Yes. I think I can find my way to forgiveness.”

“I’ve seen you here a few times. In this park. This is going to sound paranoid, but it almost seemed like you were watching me.”

“Like they say, it’s not paranoia if they really are watching you.”

“Hah. So, you were watching me?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask why?”

“You remind me of someone. From a distance, you looked like someone I once knew. And, well, up close, you still remind me of that someone. But that someone is dead. He died when I was twelve.”

“Are you sure? That he died, I mean.”

“No. No one is sure. He disappeared into the wilderness. They found his car somewhere along Highway 97, but not him. There was a search that lasted days or maybe even weeks. But they never found a trace of him. He was pretty experienced in the back country, but he had left all his gear behind. All the experts said he couldn’t have survived very long. They even said that perhaps he wandered into the woods looking to die. That he didn’t want to be found.”

“This someone just walked away? Walked away from you and from everything and everyone he knew?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds like a real creep!”

“No. He was a sweet man.”

“When I saw you the other day, watching me, well, you reminded me of someone too. Well, two someones, actually.”

“Really? Who?”

“My wife. Or probably my ex-wife by now, or maybe even my widow if they’ve declared me dead. I’ve not seen her in sixteen years, so she probably looks a lot different now. But you reminded me of her sixteen years ago. She was tall, too. With long wavy hair. Brunette. Pretty. I thought I was hallucinating. You couldn’t be her and not have aged. So, then you reminded me of my daughter, and what she might look like today.”

“What was … I mean, what is your wife’s name?”

“Janet.

“Are you okay? Your tears came on rather quickly. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. I’m just not in the habit of having polite conversations with nice young women.

“No, you don’t have to leave. Please, sit down. Please … Chloe.”

“I’ve left contact information with Archie. Come home.”