Going To School With Abraham


Going to School with Abraham is a journey of discovery intertwined within the lives of fourteen classmates. The story begins within the journal of Abraham Jackson whose journey into death is detailed through his observing eyes. As a child, Abraham Jackson seeks only his father’s love and approval for his actions. As a child, Abraham’s father held his love dangling at the end of a short string while committing his true love to his work. His father provided a luxurious home decorated in material wealth but still the halls of the home seemed empty. Abraham learned of true unconditional love from his best friend, John, whose family lived rich in love but not in material. Instead, the home of John and his family was smaller in stature with love decorating every hallway. Even at the young age of five, the friendship bonded between John and Abraham could not go unnoticed to those around them. Growing up they shared every first experience from their first date to their first drink. Abraham even shared his love with John’s sister, Sara, who he admired long before their first kiss. Abraham had everything except for his father approval so he followed in his father’s footsteps hoping to win his love. Being a lawyer may not have been his first choice but even so, he gave up everything to please him. That is when one tragic event transformed Abraham into a dying man even at the young age of twenty-seven. Abraham’s journey would not end in quiet instead, he choose to spend his final two weeks writing a mysterious journal. A journal dedicated to those whose daily fight to survive leads them only to another day of survival. The journal of Abraham is a journey painted in symbolic words and left for John to read in his sadness. With the death of Abraham weighing upon his heart, John sets out in memory of his friend’s wishes. John sets out looking for a school that will allow him to teach using Abraham’s journal as a text. He finds a group of misfit children whose parents, teachers and peers have all dismissed them as clowns. With the journal of Abraham serving as his text John’s passion for his friends’ memory will not allow him to see them as such. Instead, John surrounds the pages of Abraham’s journal with an incredible story of emotion, passion and friendship. Going to School with Abraham is a journey of friendship and survival even after death. John’s experience within the classroom helps him to recapture his lost friend in the eyes of twelve strangers. Along the way, even Sara helps in the reading of Abraham’s journal. Day after day, the class sits in the light of two candles burning inside of an unbreakable circle. A circle made up of misfit children, wooden desks and of course one heart broken man. The journal is a philosophical exploration of life through the eyes of Abraham. His pure honesty may surprise you in the truth that it holds. Abraham’s dying words explore the world in terms of people instead of the value of people. Going to School with Abraham will challenge the reader to reexamine their own values and beliefs through small lessons. In the end, Going to School with Abraham will find success not in agreement but in thought. If the reader finds emotion and thought in the symbolic imagery then Going to School with Abraham has found success. If in the end, the reader finds just a few moments to consider the themes within Going to School with Abraham then the passion of its characters has found success.


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Preface


If we were to look within ourselves for a moment, how would we even begin to look? Even those funny mirrors that make us laugh when we look seem to be missing something. For the most part they are missing the laughter, not the distorted images of our own self. In fact, if we could see within ourselves, would we even want to look? The truth may exist within us, but it takes more than just truth to help us see clearly.

There are many questions without answers that help us think. Many of these questions just end up sparking more questions. Do you think that the man who invented the gun ever thought it would be fired within a school? Did the man who invented the knife think it would be used to hurt people? We have come so far according to the calendar, but how far have we really come? How many days have passed since the days of slavery, but I ask you how many of us continue to struggle? Nothing could ever compare to the struggle of the years past, but our struggle is well designed.

Sometimes, I think if we were all colorless and poor, then we would be rich and in love with one another. Let’s take a moment to reflect on my last thought—a thought so intriguing that even those who doubt change can only shake their heads with acceptance. If we were colorless and poor, what may I ask could separate us from each other? Money just in itself provides enough power to build walls. Money is a small piece of paper that, when piled together, creates a valley so deep only a miracle could ever fill the void of such a landscape. In other words, only a miracle could ever bring us together as one. My challenge as a writer is to fill the valley with enough hope to build a bridge. Hope is the one expression of self that remains until our end. Color gives us excuses to decide who among us will belong in small uncaring groups. Black and white are never as different as when we see people of color with one another. The funny part about black and white is they are shades that have no color. The broken heart of color was shattered not by color but instead by the teaching of others. Yes, we judge one another for being gray, but we call each other red. In simple terms, we judge each other in a color that does not exist. This very fact should be the building of stupidity from which we should begin every discussion of racism. Racism should be defined as the practice of ignorance. Everyone is a threat until we spend a day getting to know the monster. Life is a blank piece of paper, which is given to us for everyone else to draw on—another statement to ponder, which only gives us other questions to wander into. As an author, my hope is to create a maze filled with questions of change. As an author, my goal is not to convince you to agree with me, but instead, my hope is to spark thoughts within you. If a hundred people read my thoughts with disagreements then they may at least begin to discuss their own feelings with another. This would be my glory as an author if I were to find success. As a future father or mother, you should hope with unending passion that we can come together to create a new portrait. Only the youth of today could ever be strong enough to change tomorrow.

When does our struggle begin together? We are not born with a title, but within minutes we are being labeled. A girl is born in pink, while a boy is born in blue. Titles give us statuses, which in turn begins our struggle. Those who are born into wealth begin life not with a silver spoon but instead a spoon of gold. The spoon is a symbol of success, but does gold equal success, or is there more to our world? The shallowness of present-day success is mocked by the success of communities traveling thousands of miles for a better life. Families traveled hundreds of days to an unknown destination for a chance to have a better life. They traveled for land to settle their families upon. Together in the shadows of yesteryear, neighbors worked alongside one another for a common goal. Is there more than just gold in a room of success, or maybe success should be judged by something else? With the title of wealth comes a challenge to retain wealth. With the title of poor comes a sense of acceptance. The title of poor begins for them a struggle, the same struggle that we so cleverly call life. Why does life have to contain a struggle for some up a hill so graded that only a giant could truly make strides, while some start on a hill looking down on success, which they could in fact trip their way into? This inequality is where my story lives, where my story breeds its dissatisfaction. Never before in the history of the world have we as a whole been so unequal, so unbalanced.

Where did William Shakespeare go, and when did we forget his words of love? Mr. Shakespeare, why was your voice silenced so long ago when your words were born from poetry? Rainbows and hearts have been replaced by lust. The love stories of our time are short without any merit. Who among us is going to spread love? The superheroes of yesterday were challenged to protect, but I challenge the heroes of this day to spread love. Nothing else has swallowed the valley that stands between, so maybe love can fill the valley with a bridge. When did we stop being brothers and instead choose to be siblings who fight all day long? Siblings never take a moment to realize blood ties each to the other. Sometimes I think if we were colorless and poor we would be rich and in love with one another—a statement which I hope will find truth in my words, a statement which I hope will be true in your eyes as well. Where did Martin Luther King Jr. go, and when did we forget his words of love? Who among us is going to take away the color of the world? Some wish for paintings of dreams, but I wish for a painter who can make a canvas of white be more special than a canvas of color. Would Shakespeare even have a voice today? Would Martin Luther King Jr. even have a dream, or would his dream be taken from him again? The only voice that speaks loud enough is the voice of violence, hate, and despair. The heroes of yesterday have been replaced by the evil of today. We build walls to keep the rest of the world from capturing yet another smile. How many of us do not even take an hour a week to listen to the priests, deacons, or any voice of God who tries to spread love? Instead of listening to preachers, or so-called preachers who use their God to preach their words of hate. How could any one of us claim the name of their God to kill another? The idea in itself seems so ridiculous that we should not even have to spend another moment on the subject, but we could spend an hour. In fact, let us take our questions and look within our homes. How many of us do not even listen to the words of the one whom we claim to love? Within our homes we find ears turned to deafness, so I ask you if we cannot hear the ones closest to us, then how can we hear the world around us?

An hour or two a week of understanding would help to break the walls that separate all of us. For Shakespeare to hear love, he would have to sit on top of a cliff so he could hear the echo. Maybe then he could hear the voice that love has come to be known by. Maybe then someone would be listening to the voice that love has come to be known by. Why is it so hard to pick up someone, but so easy to knock someone down? Kids are shooting other kids because they learned how to knock each other down. We taught them how to push one another. Why? How could we as people who are born the same way push one another as if we are so different? Where has the love gone when families fight one another? Kids turn to fathers who are fatherless. Kids turn to mothers who are without the time to be mothers. They turn to violence to be noticed, and they develop a family with violence. Another life has been lost in the time it took you to read this far. Hundreds of lives have been lost to violence since you began my little story. When do we begin to teach that love built us and hate will ultimately tear us down? When do we find the time to teach our children about love? We are the only ones who can teach the children how to hold and love each other. The world attacks those who display beauty even though beauty is defenseless. Nature is full of life, but we see no life when we look. We just destroy nature and knock it down again. How dare we knock down something so defenseless and then blame it for the anger that it displays? Once again we do not take the time to defend the defenseless. The defenseless give us life for eternity. Without trees, there is no air for us to breathe. Without children, there is no tomorrow. When will we notice a mirror is looking back at us when we begin to search for something broken? How dare we as people destroy everything that brings us happiness.

Day by day the world is becoming flat, but we do nothing. Yes, the world is becoming flat just as our forefathers thought it may have been. Maybe they were smart enough to see the future. You may laugh or snicker at my thoughts, but the truth needs to be told. All that is meaningful is escaping from us. People are full of love, but somehow their love is never able to escape. They are afraid of the people they do not know who walk next to them. Just close your eyes for a moment. Picture just one person walking into a land that he or she does not understand or a culture that is foreign to him or her. Picture that person extending a hand without judgment. Just imagine that he or she asks questions without thinking he or she knows the answer. Now just imagine we as a country walking into another world without weapons. The only weapon that we choose to bring with us is our mind. Instead of violence, we bring love. Instead of violence, we bring a pen. Instead of prejudice, we bring flowers and heart. I think your eyes are still closed because only in a dream would this ever happen. Why? That is what makes me so sad. That only in a dream could we be colorless and poor. When did we lose love? Love for one another could make the world brighter. Why are we so scared to hug one another, but so proud to fight one another? Why do we cheer for a beating but snicker at two men embracing in friendship? There is no honor in anger, just anger. Honor comes from making something better. When you see a person walking along a trail with a hand extended picking up garbage, that person has found honor from you. There is no honor if we continue to knock one another down. If there is no one to see us stand tall, then we do not stand tall. Honor is a word that has been lost in the turning of time. The only place honor is even mentioned or regarded as a virtue is in our military. Men with guns are considered to be brave, and therefore they have honor. Yes, they have honor within their brave hearts. There is no honor in fighting just two losers. The peace of the world has been sheltered by men with guns, but somehow peace has never fully come to us. War is the practice of bringing a pause to violence instead of bringing peace. As a writer, I find honor within teachers who are remembered years after the class has ended. Yes, honor can be found within firefighters whose weapon is water. Maybe a firefighter has the most honor, for his or her weapon is the symbol of birth. Honor can be found in a father whose weapon is his love for his child. Honor is within each of us, if we choose to really look within ourselves.

Just imagine once again that we were colorless. What, then, would make us so different? So different that we could believe in hate? Do we not have souls without color? I think we lose our souls within color. Instead of reaching to know each other, we look for reasons to walk away from one another. Just imagine if we were all poor. Which walls would be able to separate us one from another? Do we not have heart if we are poor? I think we lose heart when we think for a moment that love can be bought. A piece of beach glass shines the same way a ruby may shine. So why do we not have a necklace made of glass? When did we become so important that something so natural could only be below our feet? It’s ironic how many kids appreciate the glass. As kids, we are colorless and poor, even as our parents are fighting the world for a piece of happiness. As adults, what are we fighting for if the happiness we try to capture in the end just makes us sad? Working countless hours, we save money to buy a car, but who is going to sit next to us? I ask you this: If you have a new car but nobody knows you have one, do you still smile? Do you find the happiness that you fought for, or do you just drive down the road? Some would turn the music up to give life to the empty seat. There is no life without heart or soul, though. The seat is still empty even though you pretend to know the person singing the music. As a writer, I’m seeking a hug from you. As a person, I’m asking you to hug another. These words are meaningless if you just keep fighting.

Fourteen days are set before you, and you must know throughout each that death is coming. What would your last few days be like if you knew death was kissing your feet and making you warm? Death is something we must all in the end accept as the final judgment, the final event that has no respect. Death comes to us in so many unexpected forms that we may never know until death has taken us away. The ironic part is death brings us peace, but the people who love us can only find sadness. When we die, do we find happiness or sadness in our peace, knowing we left someone behind? Some of us live our whole lives celebrating the gift that has been given to us. Others never have that chance. They live knowing that death is coming, just never knowing when. My second hero, through his death, taught me at a very young age that life is worth celebrating if we can find a small piece of happiness. He was a hero to me even though I never got a chance to meet him, and at such a young age, I probably never understood what was happening to him. My first hero was my father, who passed in the same manner as Jimmy V. My father’s passing in some ways gave me understanding. My father never wore a cape or flew to the moon. Jimmy V. never dressed in a costume either, but both gave life to the clouds when they passed to heaven. The words of Jimmy V. hang in my room, just near enough so when I wake, if I ever forget, they will remind me. The words that I gave to my father hang in my heart forever. I gave life to him in the wind as we said goodbye. Those words and emotions sit in my heart forever. They became part of my soul, just as the wind became part of my life. Life is a bundle of emotions that can never be anything but a bundle. We can never even understand that the bundle is inside of us, so how can we even start to unravel it?

The first question that I have as a writer is: When did we stop living and instead choose just to survive? Some of you may not have any idea of what I am saying in my thoughts, but others have asked before. Every moment we live, tragedy follows us through our lives. Some are small, but none of them should ever be overlooked. Some make headlines, and others go quietly into the wind without even a whisper. Some have a voice, but still others have no one—they just pass after their fathers and mothers in the same tragedy. What am I speaking of in tragedy? I wake and kiss the ground and thank God for the moment that I live. In other worlds, children die every day of starvation just like their brothers or sisters. In other worlds, children are sold into slavery. They are born into poverty, starvation, and disease. They never wake with an alarm clock, but they wake to violence that never ends. Children who are the chosen may live for just a short time. As the children of this world, some of us live for many years, but no matter—we all in the end just survive until tomorrow.

The reason that I have chosen to write such a story is so personal for me. The pain of the world lies within my heart, and it is just asking to be told. A few years ago, my father passed away in what I hope was happiness. I look to the sky to kiss him good night and say good morning. The wind caresses my face when he speaks back. His death, while sad, gave me a strength that I never knew before. His passing made me realize life can end at any time. You never know how long you have to change the world. We all grow trying to change the world, but somewhere between here and the moon, we fit into our suits. We lose the very struggle that made us burn the flag or march in rallies, the very struggle that made us young and firm in our convictions. I am only one person, but my convictions strengthen when I look at the future growing all around me. My friends have children. Who will speak for them before their voice is born? Who will speak for my children, even though today they are still waiting to join us? Who will speak for the tragedy that happens all around us and far from us? If I were to be successful, then tragedy would have a voice tomorrow through each of my words. Tragedy will have a headline for the small and a page for the big. If I were to be successful, then you would never know even my name. Instead, my success would be in the name of the ten children who are able to escape the world in which they are born. Success is born in small strides of mediocrity, which is the vision that escapes the very jewel of a leader.

In some ways, my words have become autobiographical in nature, but the ending will be different for me. This book is a journal of lives being touched by one person who, in the end, could not hold on to his life. He could not find heart to help himself heal. He had lost his family, his love, and his friend. Hopefully, in the end, his tragic death will help change the fate of us all. Throughout writing this story, it is hard for me to separate the reality of its truth from the fiction that the words have become. If there were a genre that fully captured the story that you are about to read, it may be called fictional reality. In my mind, many of the events that take place have taken place in front of me. People pass by me from time to time who capture my sight. A piece of each of them is written in every word that you read. If you ever see any of them, just say thank you for me. Reality is found in them and found in the stories that shaped my life through this time. Each day, I read the paper and see the stories that shape each of our lives, and it makes my heart sad for the tragedy that plays daily in the world. The emotion that is captured throughout the journal comes from these events and so much more. This is the part that reality has written for me. The fictional part of the story is what you or I would like it to be. The fictional part for me is anything that I could never believe would happen. This is why every time I turn the page of the local paper it all appears fiction to me. Throughout my life, I could never believe that we as two people could ever treat each other like we do.

In the coming moments, you will be entering into a world that nobody could ever change for me. This is the world that my dream has made for me. As you read, I hope that you think from time to time about what you would do if you had the same choices. Abraham is the central figure in the story, and his words are the driving force. His death will never be less than tragic for those who loved him, but his best friend reaches for comfort in strength. He challenges himself to make the death of his friend bring life to those who have no idea that life is passing them by. They have no idea the world has taken life from them. John, Abraham’s best friend, hopes his friend’s passing will help others to live, and through this, he will gain strength to carry on. This book is John’s story, even though he writes only half or less. He is teaching a group of young adults with Abraham’s journal as his text. The young adults happen to be a group of misfit kids who do not have a strong connection with their school. They have forever been in a classic fight with authority, stretching the limits of adolescence far beyond school dances and bowling. Most of their peers, as well as authority, have given up on their joining the world. The challenge to John is to turn them around in just two weeks, even though there has not been anyone who could reach them before. The challenge of the reader is threefold. The first challenge is to determine what or who has killed Abraham. The second is to feel the emotion of all who are involved. The final challenge takes place in the end. What, if any, change could you or I make to help Abraham, and all who may be involved, give life to those who have no life? As each day passes, we lose another who meant so much to someone, but we do nothing. We do nothing, but just try to survive and fight (for what, I do not know). I bow my head in silence and a question hits me. When do we decide if fourteen days is long enough to live or so short we must die? One of the questions that I leave you to ponder goes something like this: When we look back at our lives, will we be able to say that we lived for a moment or were we just dying all along? When we grow older, will we be satisfied knowing that we did everything we could to achieve greatness. Or in the very least, did we recognize our chance to ask for more. As a man, a poet, a future husband and father, I saw my opportunity to promote change in these words, which is a gift given to me, and at first I chose to pass them by. Now as I begin my journey with you, I reminded myself of one simple fact. Glory is given to those who choose to walk the unworn path. Glory is given to those who do not ask to be known but instead choose to give a voice to those who struggle without one. Some are not tall enough and others are too far away from what we see in our daily lives. Glory happens to be something we do not ask for but instead achieve in some random act of kindness. The school of Abraham is open to anyone who chooses to open their eyes for the first time. Come walk in the footsteps of a man who chose to be a leader even though he never led anyone. Come walk in the footsteps of a man who is nothing more than a simple man, but his story happens to be one of such extraordinary occurrences that neither one of us could ever imagine knowing how to walk in his shoes. Come walk with a man step by step as he journeyed toward death while his death was journeying toward life for others. Welcome to the school of Abraham! The doors of the school are always open for those who choose to begin the journey of the voiceless. Once again, welcome to the school of ...

coming in the fall

Tears Falling Upon a Park Bench



For my second novel, I have chosen to focus in on one of the central themes of my first novel, Going to School With Abraham. Love in every sense of the world is the building block of hope. Without love, hope is a distant dream lost without the inspiration or desire for a better tomorrow. For most of us, we spend our lives either searching for love or experiencing everything love has to offer. Tears Falling upon a Park Bench will follow the life of one man from a boy learning everything there is to know about love, to a man in search of his one true love. The story will center on the life of Ryan Jacobs who is re-living his life through a series of broken memories. His memories capture snapshots of his life within the shadows of love or his search for his one true love. The life of Ryan Jacobs may not be original but his emotional attachment to his memories will capture you. He will make the simple seem spectacular especially when it comes to his true love, Veronica. Ryan may be sitting upon a bench, but you will travel with him through a lifetime of loves. He may even inspire you to hold onto your smile while tears fall upon your lips. Love can make the impossible moments seem possible.
Preface

Two lovers sit sipping tea in a park enjoying a spring day without a care in their world. They sit still looking across a small table engaging in silly conversations that reflect upon their journey together. Reminiscing of the first days together, they smile with the feel of their first kiss inspiring another first kiss. They spend their lives together celebrating one another for their inner beauty. They laugh for no other reason except for the smile they share upon one another’s lips. Time may pass from morning to night just like the day falls into the night but they remain in thought of one another. Picture a graying, older, tired man with his eyes struggling to remain open. His desires remain in his pillow where he will find rest to appease his tired eyes. His thoughts swirl in memory of his enduring love for his one bride. He awakes if only for a few moment to massage his tired wife’s aching back. The light of one candle burns inspiring him to carry on exploring the curves of his fading angel. They fall into slumber with their dreams mirroring their lives together. Love can be seen through a mirror, if those who choose to walk such a path find their souls in constant desire. Images of love inspire us to smile even when we view them from a window in admiration of two destined souls. Two intertwined within one heart small enough to appreciate the smallest of moments.

Poets have created lustful prose, since the beginning of time with their own desires guiding their pen. The pen of a poet carries an appreciation for their romantic tales inspire ordinary people to reach for the extraordinary in the arms of another. From their first words, an author of romance scribbles emotionally filled prose intended to honor their own lustful heart. They write without a care, for their lustful heart guides their pen even as their eyes remain closed. An author of romance creates love within soulful tales of fabled characters. Men and woman who find true love in the eyes of a stranger or in the arms of a soulmate. We the reader share in a fictional tale of two souls that with luck find one breathe. We share the hopes of young lovers destined through winter’s fury to find a blossoming flower under the melting snow. A romantic storyteller finds emotion to be his friend even in the most desperate of times. As we, the reader find support for fabled characters as they battle through their personal demons in search of their one true and everlasting love. Authors make love seem simple as their characters find destiny more often then not. Just as the sun finds routine in its rising, the hero finds his reward in a beautiful mistress. Authors find their reward in happy conclusions created to please thirsty readers of joy. Unfortunately, authors do not script the day before us, as destiny brings us into the falling night. Real life does not follow a script so authors must continue to create their fictional tales in honor of love itself. In honor of happiness, they must continue to pen tales of fateful love. For without their stories we have nothing to inspire us to carry on in our journey in hopes of our fabled ending.

The true meaning of love finds life within in the hearts of young men and woman who smile for no obvious reason. They walk almost aimlessly with their attention focused deep within their blossoming hearts. The world rumbles beneath their feet silently as their attention remains locked within a kiss. As their lips tire, separating for a moment, they stare within their eyes to focused to smile even for a second. They kiss softly with air their only need for separation. Within your appreciation for the moment lives the true meaning of love. Love flourishes in private moments appreciated by only two hearts and in turn creates other quiet moments. Those looking within the arms of two lovers cannot understand love for their private moments create a soulful union. Their string of moments when strung together help to create a love destined for a lifetime. Love is a series of photos strung together in a union of blissful memories. The definition of love remains in eternity for true love is all that we have to carry us through our eternal slumber. Eternal within the hearts of those who are lost within their love. Love is eternal, within those who allow their love to experience unrelenting passion. Eternal in the words of poets who spend their lifetimes creating prose filled with glorious pictures of everlasting lust. Eternal in the everlasting souls of two lives separated only in body but never in heart. The true meaning of love lives within a lifetime of dedication to one incredible and beautiful soul. There is always a beginning to every love but for the lucky ones there is no ending. Time may take us from earth to heaven, but for those who find true love will spend their eternity in peaceful slumber.

Love does not begin in a moment; instead, love is a learning experience that captures you in the touch of another. For those of us who are lucky we have the pleasure of falling in love in depths only known by those lost within their eternal lusting soul. The cinema highlights moments of lust and presents them to us as moments of love. Lust is everything that captures us in moments of true passion but lacks the everyday battles of life. For all of lust’s celebrations the simple fact remains that love is everything that lust falls short of being. Lust lives within moments of love but what love offers us is moments of everyday admiration. A man’s love extends beyond lust into the everyday chores of life. In admiration, a loving man captures the profile of his beautiful wife while she tends to their garden. He finds beauty does not live within the roses she sculpts but within her worn hands, he finds true beauty. Ordinary moments of appreciation seem small to big eyes but true love belongs to small men. Love is a gift given to us by angels that desire for us the best of what life has to offer. Their heavenly wings sprinkle magic upon the souls of two uniting worlds colliding in fits of passion. True love between two souls can bring sun from a rainy day, can bring heat from snow and can bring dreams into our everyday lives.

Love does begin with a woman or a man; instead, love begins in our birth as people. The lucky few find conception within love and grow within the eyes of those whose love created their beating hearts. Love as I said before is a journey of discovery that begins in childhood. For everything we feel begins within the arms of our mother, who rocks us into a protected sleep. Love grows within us as we grow as children into adults searching for our eternal love. So many of us forget that are heart is nurtured by loving parents who not only teach us of life but also through their example we find our first experiences with love. From there our journey continues with ever-growing twists and turns as our stories grow with each passing day. In the end, all that we are rests within our love for others far and near. In the end when dawn turns into dust we leave behind trails littered in births created in love. My story, my journey has been no different for my quest to find true love has led me to these words. My quest has led me to this moment when everything my heart has felt flows into words crafted by my slowing heart. Tears fall from my eyes dripping upon the ground waiting below. Tears Falling upon a Park Bench, seeks to capture the hearts of its readers with a honest depiction of one man’s life long journey in regards to love. Ryan Jacobs is an elderly man recalling his life through a series of broken memories. Beginning with his childhood Ryan’s life long journey in love evolves from learning into experiencing. His childhood begins in fullness as those with whom he shares his young life teach him of love. Through their love for him, he evolves into a man searching for destiny to honor him with his one true love. His search runs the gamut of emotions from embarrassment, to laughter, and in the end, heartache. Tears Falling upon a Park Bench seeks to capture those whose quest for love remains incomplete as well as those whose journey has found its fateful home. For those who still search in the sunset for a love yet unnamed, travel with Ryan down a road of discovery. Learn from his mistakes along with his accomplishments so you can journey your road with knowledge. Knowledge that will help strip you of your defenses so you may shine within the arms of your lover. For those whose journey has found a place to rest travel with Ryan in remembrance of your love. In the end, you will find a new appreciation for the love that you share within the arms of your destiny. You may even find yourself holding your lover closer or surprising him with a kiss. Either way, pull up a chair along with a friend and enjoy the tears of one man falling upon a park bench.