Moonsong Glacier worship

In the days before his mother’s final passing, he thought,

Lord, if it is your will, let her go painlessly and quickly.

But it was not His will. Perhaps recognizing the wellspring of selfishness from where his prayer drew its water, Dove’s decline was slow and awful.

His father had said the last rites. They had buried her and spent all day digging through the soil, hardened by frost. His feet had cracked and bled. He had said, off-hand, “When the disciples went to check on Mary’s grave after she died, they only found flower petals.”

When he saw his father on that early winter morning, he felt as miserable as the weather.

Dad, he whispered. Then, louder, Dad.

Back to being a child again, in those crucial seconds. When had his father gotten so thin, so tired?