June 21st, 1925
My mother is bustling about with the upcoming Summer
Festival. This is not some large German
occurrence, but it is a rather big deal for our little village. It happens every year and every year I make
up excuses not to attend. I am not
exactly a social butterfly. This year my
mother is insisting that I go to the bon fire and dance. I know what she has in mind and I am simply
not interested. However, how can a young
man break his mother’s heart? I suppose
I shall have to at least go for a few hours.
Though I am not exactly looking forward to it, I might be
able to get some enjoyment out of visiting the various stands with food and
other goods. I know many of the locals
make candies to sell. It might seem
ridiculous for a man of my age to traverse through a summer festival munching
on candies, but why not? I am on my
holiday, after-all.
Father has declined all attempts from my mother to make him attend
the festivities. He has grumped about
the house complaining of too much work and other things that I barely
understand. I have seen him take a few
patients since the appearance of the stranger.
There has been a child with influenza, a man with a rash and a woman
that went into his study and spoke with him privately. All of them left happily ‘cured’ of their
ailments.
I cannot know for certain, but sometimes I get the feeling
that Father is avoiding me. At the
dinner table he won’t look in my direction and he will not engage me in direct
conversation. I am not certain what to
make of this turn in our relationship.
Of course, when I bring it up to Mother she merely passes it off to
stress, being over-worked and other such.
The longer I am home, the more I wonder if it was a mistake to return at
all. Perhaps I will make up some excuse
towards the end of the summer about needing to work on projects and then return
to University early. If Father barely
speaks to me and Mother spends her time wanting me to make merry with women,
what point is there in staying?
This whole trip has been a confusing and yet sobering
experience for me. I have come to the
conclusion that maybe I am outgrowing my parents. It was never a thought before this visit, but
now I wonder if I could perhaps find a place of my own. There is really no need to constantly rely
upon them as if I were a child. Though
young, I am a man.
It is these thoughts which keep me warm in this ever-growing
cold environment.
Tomorrow is the day of the festival but it was today that I
received a small package. There was no
return address, nor a label to state who sent it. My mother gave it to me over lunch. I was curious about receiving a package. It was wrapped in plain brown paper and tied
with twine. Of course, I felt a twinge
of excitement; I admit a boyish joy at receiving any kind of mail.
I retired to the gardens to open the package. Sitting amongst the gorgeous colors with the
sun beating down upon my face, I carefully removed the wrappings. It was a little box with a sliding lid and
inside was four chocolates from a nearby shop.
I felt my cheeks become hot and my stomach do somersaults. It is incredibly scandalous for a man to
receive such a gift. Also, I do so adore
sweets.
While I savored one of the sinful treats, I went rifling
through the package in search of any sort of indication to who might have been
my anonymous benefactor. I almost
over-looked the tiny note that was tucked on the inside of the box beneath the
sweets. It was a simple card with no
name, but in a rolling pen there were the words. “I
regret leaving you so swiftly. Meet me
behind the candy shop tomorrow night.”
I know of only one person who ‘left me swiftly.’ It must be the stranger! He wishes to meet me covertly behind the
sweets shop; during the festival of all things.
I am torn about the meeting, and indeed about the chocolates. Of course, I have already devoured them and
though my stomach is filled with regret, my tongue regrets nothing. My curiosity is getting the better of me, and
I will likely go to meet him. I have no
idea what might become of me after tomorrow night.
Wish me luck, Journal.
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