An Angel's Hands

He turned to leave, his hand draped over his forehead as if to wipe away the insanity. But a child blocked his exit, a smallish boy with a sickly pallor about him. However frail his body, dressed sharply for his age in khakis and a sweater vest, his eyes conveyed strength.

“I told you,” he chided the man. The man shook his head and turned to the side to stare out over the mist-shrouded mountain vista. I doubt he found any solace there.

“It won’t change anything,” the man said weakly.

“That’s not the point,” was the boy’s reply, but it was a metered response, not petulant or pouting.

“I…I can’t…” the adult stammered before his head fell to his chest, his eyes no longer seeing the magnificent view.

With clacking steps on the stone floor, the boy approached, took the man’s hand and said reassuringly, “Yes, you can.” Then, in a soft whisper he urged, “Just believe, dad.”

My smile returned involuntarily. I felt the wind swirl around me. A ring and the links of chain fell from my loosened hands.

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