“Son,” says a rattling voice, “I’ve got one for you.” A comical wink from behind thick lenses.
“Yes, father?” A kind and inquisitive glance through clear blue eyes.
“Son, what if—just supposing—what if you become a priest one day?” A deep breath, then: “Would I need to call you ‘Father’?” Owl eyebrows rise above black frames.
“Father—” a pause, a frown. Resignation within clear blue eyes. A smile rises with a lump in the throat. “Yes, father, I guess that you would have to call me ‘Father,’ wouldn’t you.”
Gentle smile tightens cracked lips. Owl eyebrows withdraw as eyes close. A short cough follows a long chuckle.
“Hey, father,” the young face now deadpan, “wouldn’t that mean I’d have to call you ‘My Son’?”
A pause, a frown. Realization behind thick lenses. Rattling voice erupts into laughter, loud and barking. “Heh, my son, I guess you would!”
A longer pause, eyebrows rising again, follicles flicking past frames one could buy in the antiques shop just down the road past the hospice.
An arm, clad in black, navigates through the bedside railing. A younger hand, black-cuffed, cups the older, its soft palm pressing on parchment skin, gently, just next to the IV tape.
It’s been months since “But, father, I am a priest” was said. Out of respect, it never will be again.
And one day, young hands gently release the old, grasp the stole from the nightstand, drape it around young shoulders, and un-pocket the chrism vial.
True story?