Chance passing?

Chance passing?

By Len Morgan

I inhabited a park bench where few choose to sit, he occupied its opposite end.  A boy of eight or nine, grubby face, scuffed shoes with unkempt hair, and a threadbare coat, inappropriate for December.  He shivered and cried.

"What grief besets you boy?"

"My mother is...dying," he rubbed his reddened eyes.

"That is sad boy, what ails her?"

"Cholera sir."

"There is a vaccine..."

"Too late."

"Can I help in any way?"

"You are kind, but her die is cast."

"What is your name boy, and where will you go?"

"My name is Arthur.  Where I go should not overly concern you.  I am here to await her final demise and bear her up to heaven."

"If you are so certain of her salvation why do you weep?"

"I weep for another.  One who has strayed from the path and is endangering his immortal soul.  I seek to turn him to the right path before his end becomes inevitable.  He has lost his faith and is in dire need of guidance."

"Can I aid you in your quest?"

"You can sir."

"Then tell me what I must do; if it is within my power it shall be done!"

"Your word sir?"

"You have it!"

The boy smiled, "father, return home bury your wife and renew your faith."

I moved closer that I might better see his face, could it be?  "Arthur my son, how could I not recognize you?   I buried you just nine months past.  The Scarlett fever that stole you from me, stole all purpose from my life." 

"My two sisters have need of a father.  Take care of the living; let me attend to mothers passing soul."  He smiled, and paled becoming ethereal, "By your own word, we will meet again.  Farewell, father."

 Copyright Len Morgan