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My Son

She knew without a doubt she was on her deathbed this time. Well, she’d accept it. She certainly wasn’t the first person to die. Her husband, Joe, had died years ago, not to mention her own parents before that and one of her children, a son. She couldn’t quite remember how many years ago. Maybe twenty. Didn’t matter anyway. How important was the when or where of death? It was what it was. She remembered the hand yesterday. She wondered if it would happen again.

It was four p.m. and she was feverish and sweaty, just as now. She’d been alone in the room. Then, suddenly, she felt this terribly real presence. She saw a hand but no body. The hand gently wiped her forehead then her face and neck. It made her feel cooler. She felt much better for the longest time afterward. No pain at all. Later her thoughts shocked her. No, she’d told herself. But...

If it happened today, she’d keep quiet about it. Some things are better unsaid to avoid problems. She hoped it would happen. She remembered pinching herself yesterday. Yes, she’d been awake; it was real because she’d felt the little pain of the pinch.

She’d dozed off but came to when the presence awakened her. The clock said four again. The feeling was overwhelming. The hand was definitely His. Her Jesus’, the special Son murdered while still young at thirty-three.

"Mother."

"My Son," Mary whispered, closing her eyes the last time.

Story by:

Randall Barfield

booksdavid@hotmail.com

submitted at 5:24am

15 April 2009

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