September 24th

Jackson, my son,

I'm cold.

I know that's foolish to say as my first parting words, considering that I might not make it out of here and all, but the nurse told me to write what I feel, and that's it, son. I feel cold.

The old man lay in a hospital bed, his body frail. Yet, as best he knew, his mind was sharp as ever. Monitors beeped, doctors and nurses spoke in a hurried chatter outside the room, pen scratched at the yellow pad, a letter in progress, to be sent to the old man's son as evidence of his last words, his last thoughts. In his prime, after the old man had already lived a journey of sorrow, joy, peace, and escapades, he could best be considered an academic. He loved the classics and, most of all, poetry. Yet, now, the old man was a patient, tying up the ends of his journey, about to turn his own page to its close.

How did I get here? I don't know; I don't know how I got here.

The man closed his eyes, his thoughts escaping his mind. The only image left was a vague, blurry photograph, the last setting he remembered seeing before waking up in this bed. To which he had no idea how he arrived, nor a relative to greet him, as his son was off living his own life, listening to his wife as she read the daily events off a calendar, both blissfully unaware of his father's soon-to-be passing. Although, if the son had known, he'd be right there by his father's side, hands held, an ancient photobook between them, the missing photographs the ones the old man longed for most.

Wasn't it spooky, son? Bone-chilling? That must be why I'm cold— from fear.

The old man erased the last sentence. Then wrote another, erased that. He didn't know what to say. He couldn't think. All he could see was the image, that terrifying photograph. All the man wanted was to say goodbye to his son. To hold his son in his arms like he never got to do with his lost love, the one the nurse at his bedside strongly reminded the old man of.

"Just tell me what happened," the lover said, his voice coarse and raspy from a short lifetime's worth of cigarettes. He was sitting in the nurse's chair, his olive green jacket snug to his chest, his last name worn proudly on his right breast pocket. The country's name was stitched to the left, onto the cloth, the one for which he would die, if not overseas, then in the fight for the man he loved.

"Jackson," the old man whispered, closing his eyes once more. When they opened, his lover was gone, replaced by a young man in a pair of dark blue scrubs. The nurse took the pen and pad, letter unfinished, telling the old man to relax.

"Sir," the nurse said, "tell me a story."

"A story?" The old man asked, to which the nurse nodded. The man had many stories, none of which came to mind. Except him—except his lover—the man he'd tried so hard to forget and now was fighting desperately with both the will and reluctance to meet.

"What happened?" The nurse asked.

"What happened?" The old man tried to erase his lover from his mind, focusing on his last memory, his last adventure. For some reason, he thought the two connected, but he couldn't recall why—a mystery he'd take to his grave. "I found... I.... I found..." The man sighed. "I found this house, you see. In the woods. I found this house in the woods, in this... this clearing. There were no trees." The man closed his eyes, opened them. "No, there were. There were a few trees. You see, there was this clearing, and these trees, and this house." The man closed his eyes again. "Jackson, the house." The old man turned to the nurse.

"Are you cold?" He asked. "I'm cold." The nurse shook his head. The old man nodded, turning his attention back to his story.

"There... where was I?" The old man asked again.

"The house," the nurse replied.

"The house... a house. There was a house. There was a clearing, trees. It was small—just one room. There was... there was a chimney. Two. I think there was two chimneys. Yes, there was two chimneys in the house. But it wasn't cold. No, no, it wasn't cold.

"In fact, it was warm. The house, the house was warm. The house in the clearing. And he... oh no... he was there. Sir, he was there!"

The man turned to the nurse, frightened. Of what, the nurse didn't know.

"It's cold," the old man whispered. "I'm so cold. Do you think... do you think he's cold? It's cold; I'm cold. It's cold..."

The nurse stood, grabbing an extra blanket, thin as the old man's fraying memories, and laid it on top of the others. The old man tried to grab hold of his thoughts. He was an academic, good with words. This he knew, and yet his mind was trailing...

"The house..." The old man started again. "The clearing... trees." The man smiled as the nurse sat back down beside the bed. "Trees. Oh, I love trees," the old man continued. "When I was a boy, you see, when I was a young boy, oh, I used to love the trees. Once, I remember once, there was this tree in the forest by my parent's house. I used to love climbing it."

The old man's expression once again morphed into one of horror.

"Do you think I'll see any trees up there? Will he be there? Sarah, my Sarah, will you be there?" The old man yet again closed his eyes, growing tired, trying to remember the life he'd had with his wife and the son they loved together. "Sarah, are you cold? Is it cold down there? I'm cold. It's so cold. I'm..."

The man took a breath, once again looking at the nurse, trying, failing. He was tired; his mind was slipping.

"The tree, the woods, clearing. The house. I saw a house. There was two chimneys. And a bed. The house was warm. I'm not warm... Jackson, I'm... I'm c..."