The preacher’s last son

I was reminded of it when I passed by.  Those days when she and I would walk for hours, sharing stories and dreaming of the possibilities of it all.  I remember saying there was a way out of this.

It was in fairly good shape for an old abandoned manse.  I imagined as I circled that children must have huddled in its shadow, comforted by the company and grandeur, the familiarity of a place without consequence.

But lost fortunes, faith faltered, and overcrowded ambitions moved this into silhouette memories, childhood past, familiarity foregone.

And there was the myth of one last child.  Campfire tales described the figure at the portico, waving  arms inward, as if to invite.  The last son would cry, they said, beckoning strangers to his comfort.

I moved quickly by, ignoring tall tales.  And memories of her.

Advertisement