Can you write a hub named Hallelujah? Kind of flash fiction and kind of truth.
But love did not leave me
Love is not what you see in the movies
I was 2 thousand miles from my children. I had a problem they called "wasting". I woke up under the bridge that ran over White River, Vermont. 1 foot of snow had fallen. I was so cold.
No not cold from the snow I was cold from losing my love.
I cried so hard that morning and my tears froze on my cheeks as I made way down to break the ice on the river to wash up and start a day that would have no sun, no food and no work. Some called us bums. That is OK with me.
I had to find someone worse off than me -- was it possible?
I walked two miles up the River to a camp of hobo's. And it was tough but going into camp I was told that they had to move on because old Nick had died and was over there. Nick had nothing and died alone I suppose. So I walked over to give him last prayers as I have some preacher in me.
Nick's lips were blue. And the frost was melting off his forehead. He was stiff like frozen. Something told me to open his army parka and feel his chest to give him comfort. Place a hand where his last breath was taken. So I did and what I saw bothered me a bit. Nick had a big hole in his chest. Pretty much like a shotgun would cause. Clearly someone had put the jacket on him after he had been shot.
I turned to see most all had left the camp. Older ones were straggling behind. So I yelled if anyone knew what happened. The answer was that the man had got him.
Just sing it.
Who was Nick?
Nick always wore gloves a hoodie and a wool cap. and glasses, usually dark. He was dirty like most. He smelled normal for down here. But they had taken his boots gloves and hat and glasses.
I noticed the strangest thing. His fingernails were not just clean they were manicured and polished as were his toes. His hair was salt and pepper and trimmed neatly. Out of morbid curiosity I checked for needle marks. None. Then I looked for obvious signs of acute alcoholism and there were none. No edema at the ankles and skin that was clean on a well muscled frame.
What the heck?
Well this was not looking good.
So I covered up Nick with what I could find loose and an old tarp left behind and I began the 5 mile trudge into to town and the police station.
I reckon that trudge was not as much about getting out of the river bed and into town as it was the beginning of my repentance. The walk seemed to take forever but I felt better with each step. I did not belong here in the valley of lost hope. Though from that day on where ever I went I would find that same valley that same despair and to this day they are constant reminders that there is someone worse off than me.
What the heck was Nick doing down there? And who was Nick?
Some days there is thaw and others there is only frozen water,
We are all on a constant journey.
Perhaps we can all take the time to look for someone worse off than us. I am beginning to question what that means. Is the man on hill with the job, wife and kids truly better off than the beggar? Probably but now in my mind there is a crack of doubt of that notion. What worry to we face each day to keep our stuff? What freedom is there without the stuff.