John walked slowly along the side road,
past the frosted fields under the frosted sun.
Black upon his back, python boots, a gun.
Mud, bitter and crunching moved under his feet.
A steady walk, unhurried and direct.
Ever toward the horizon.
Wearing above all an easy smile.
Easy as if stolen, maybe from his father
or a teacher long abandoned, but now comfortably his own.
In time, he stops, allows his ears to get bitten by the wind.
Lady wind rushes past his ears, hard as ice, steady as a horse's hooves.
Birds play and call in the distance, and far to the right along
the fields the mottled cows graze unmolested.
Somewhere in the cold parts of his mind, a plan starts to
melt into shape. Forged of a solitary conviction,
the man continues his merry march past the passing roaring
train.
John grins.
Ahead in the near distance, he sees the next chapel at the side of the Mexican highway.
Approaching steadily, he steps in.
Slowly, upon entering, allowing his eyes to mend to the softened light, he lets his hands run along the back of the pew, feeling his hand pierced on the fourth row.
"Ha! A splinter." he mutters
"I deserve that." Walking further in and finding it empty, he stops and
lifting his head to the image of the Christ in the back of the stained glass window, he says
"Considering the state you were in, I suppose You don’t feel too sorry for me...don’t worry, I don’t either."
John's grey eyes stare a moment longer.
"I feel sorry for You though, I reckon you hear a whole lot of bullshit don’t You?"
"Sorry....habit." Quietly and unconsciously taking his hat in hand, John reflexively rubs his hand over his shaved head and slowly down his thick black beard. He sits down and sets his hat beside him.
Look, I gotta tell somebody and You’re the only feller I trust anyway. Turns out....I ummm may need some help. I got a situation, I’m sure you been apprised of it. Angels and all...
it’s about Rose. I’m about to tell her I love her. Now I know damn well she doesn’t know I exist. That I’ve never said a word to her. That I’m just the messenger to drop off the money her husband gave me before he died this morning. But all the same, I need to tell her I love her. I’m sure you’ve heard stranger things. Keep me alive long enough to do that, will You? I gotta do one right thing before I’m done. Figure loving that woman and taking her this money has to be it.
John sat back quietly as if listening.
Now I heard a preacher say that it ain’t really about what we do for You, but about what You did there." he said, gesturing towards the mural. "I get that, I suppose nothing I do can compete there, But didn’t old Abraham do something to prove he was sincere? I reckon this is that way. That's it, if I make it that far, I suppose I'll owe You one more than I already do."
John got up, gave a last look, put on his hat, and walked back out into the cold morning sun. He had been walking since before sunrise, as was his custom when he ran across the dying man. He stopped to pull him from the carriage, and the man requested John deliver the money and take care of his wife Rose. John saw an opportunity in the responsibility. Redemption. That's what brought his smile back. He started back down the path, boots digging in further into the warming mud. The plan was to go north through Laredo, then from Texas to Louisiana, find Monroe County, give Rose the money, tell her about finding her husband dying on the road, and tell her he loved her. Madness it may have been, but that was his path.
Further down the frosted path he wandered
walking past the open fields
steady onward toward the horizon.
Regret and memory stepping softly on his trail
hope going before like a sentry
What if love could be redemption?
What if he could forget the sight of the broken man
left for dead, crushed and broken by his carriage
gambling winnings strewn around the drunken wreck.
Had he known him? Does it matter?
Freedom called, and maybe ending the prison
of his solitary walk after all these steady years.
He smiled up at Heaven.
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