The Imprint of a Blessing
I saw the hand reaching over, embracing what was left of my brokenness. It was Father Christmas or Father Sun, or maybe just the oldest spirit known. He had that white beard you’d expect, that gentle smile coupled with warmth, all framing his happy eyes.
And he led me down that path, where shadows loom just past sunlit wildflowers. I could have been floating, for all the lack of effort it took. I just followed blindly, feeling loved down to the frayed seems of my wool socks. He knew I hadn’t washed my hair that day, that I was really just a so-so teacher, that even as a mom I left something to be desired. But still, he loved me.
He loved me like the grandpa I never knew.
He loved me like the husband’s open arms.
He was so much more than he; and he made me so much more than me.
We neared the end of the path, where I would walk alone. No evergreens dropping snow on me. No human touch. Just me, expanding into myself and finally learning to be silent.
And I would be okay.
I had been loved; I had known love. Even in pain, I had found this friend. There were no words as his image disintegrated, just the imprint of a blessing.
* 220 words on the 3rd definition of father.
Kristin D. Jones writes fiction and non-fiction amidst the forests and lakes of Northern Illinois. Find her first novel, Goddess Grove, on Amazon.