Story I wrote about a year ago:

A Harvest Day

I still remember the smell of his lamb-fur jacket. I was five, he was seventy-three. An odd duet some would say; however I would say that our song was the most beautiful of all. At such a ripe age, I can say that he inspired me. His kindness, his compassion, and his understanding were truly Christ-like. I remember running through the corridor just to embrace him. He would pat me on the head and give loving words of encouragement. I can still remember soaking my pillow with tears. Sobbing into the down and cotton. My mother tried to comfort me in my grief, a feeling she was quite familiar with. Her words rang through my ears like a melody. The score she was writing me could not take image out of my conscious. It was an image of my beloved old friend, giving his last breaths to the leaves and his last words to a Lord that loved him so. I came to a crossroads on that evening. The trail that I chose was full of snarls and snags, but my feet were always firmly planted. Now at the age of 23, the idea of my friend still lingers with me. He is with every movement I make, reminding me to walk in love like he did.