DISCLAIMER: I have no money. My house is very cold from lack of heat, and the only way to keep my fingers warm is to type stories about Sam Seaborn and other characters from the West Wing for NO PROFIT. I do not claim them as my own, just use them to do my evil NON PROFIT bidding. No money is made here. Sue someone rich.
NOTE: It's been awhile, I know. I was bored, and just read all the wonderful comments people left, and I realized some authors whose works I hold in high respect commented as well.....and it made me think. This isn't an alternate ending, but a continuation. And it's in honor of my late stepfather, who passed away suddenly this past November. I miss you, Mr. Bill.
Injustice
Their feet made fresh prints in the newly fallen snow as they walked across the park. It was twenty degrees, but felt colder when you or in the wind and their California blood. The temperature didn't change the way they felt, or the way they approached the task before them. Nothing can unfreeze your heart when you have to walk to a memorial to visit your only son on Christmas. The man set down the picture he carried as the woman set down flowers. He held her as she sobbed against his jacket, turning his eyes upward to keep his tears from falling as he spoke.
"Merry Christmas, son. Your mother and I wanted to come here, and see what was so great about DC in the winter.......the snow is nice, I guess. We saw your friends the other day. They all wanted us to tell you they miss you, and Merry Christmas. I'm sure they came by already......I can see the old footprints. We just wanted to say that we love you, Samuel. And we miss you too....." His voice trailed off, because there are no right words to say to the child you've lost, nothing you can say to make the pain go away or the memories fade. He and his wife sit, without speaking, remembering the Christmases when Sam was young. His youthful determination to wait up for Santa, devising plans to catch St. Nick in action, or how he would methodically open each package. They also remembered more recent Christmases, in which a quick phone call and an airmailed package was the only way of communicating with their son.
The good memories along with the bad flood their minds and the tears fall freely. The minutes quickly turn into an hour, and a watch beeps to remind them of the flight they must catch. She kneels in front of his plaque, praying for his eternal soul as he stands with a hand on her shoulder, which gently guides her to her feet and out towards the street to catch a taxi. The snow continues to fall as day turns into night, and life goes on despite love lost.