Our Father
December 5th 2007 04:15
I have decided to inflict upon the masses a (very) short story that I wrote a while ago. I apologise in advance, I had intended to post ramblings rather than stories but I've been busy and haven't written a post in a while so I thought I'd just put this out there!
Our Father
I was, as usual, in the city early before work. Not that I was in any hurry to get to work, I just liked watching the city wake up, enjoyed walking the streets as the cleaners swept away the sins and follies of the previous day.
On this sun-blasted morning I decided to go and sit in St Mary’s Cathedral for a while. I don’t really know why. Curiosity I guess. As the city expanded to the south and west this once imposing building seemed more and more to be on the fringes of the CBD, rather than near its heart. Which seemed somehow apt.
I sat there for maybe forty minutes or so. It was nice. Nothing spectacular, I mean I couldn’t say that I felt anything spiritual, but I enjoyed the quietness. I especially enjoyed watching people who were obviously on their way to work drop in and light a candle, bow their heads for a couple of minutes, then disappear into the morning rush. I envied them their belief.
I left through the back entrance toward the restrooms. As I walked in a guy was washing himself thoroughly at the sink. He had no shoes on and his feet were black with dirt. I guess it’s hard to wash your feet in the sink.
As I turned to leave he said something, but it came out so fast that I wasn’t sure what he’d said or even if it had been directed at me.
“Sparechangemister?” he repeated, pushing the sounds together so that it came out as one word. The close confines of the washroom gave the situation an intimacy that made it impossible to say no.
When I opened my wallet I realised that I only had a $10 note, and although it was more than I had intended to give, it was too late to do anything else. I held the note out hesitantly until he grabbed it and stuffed into his pocket.
“Whatsyourname?”
I wondered whether to give him a false name, though it occurred to me that this was more than a little paranoid, and also a glimpse into a prejudice I didn’t even know I had.
“Joshua,” I offered finally.
“I’mgonnaprayforyouJoshua.”
Before I could think of a suitable response he had already launched into his obviously well-rehearsed oration.
“Ourfatherwhoartinheaventhyki ngdomcomethywillbedoneonearth asitisinheavengiveusthisdaily breadandforgiveusourtrespasse sasweforgivethosewhotrespassa gainstusandleadusnotintotempt ationbutdeliverusfromevilfort hineisthekingdomthepowerandth egloryforeverandeveramen.”
The words fumbled out in a torrent, with no clear sense of purpose or direction, and it seemed that he had already spun on his heel and disappeared into the glare of the morning before the words had fully settled.
God only knows how many times he had performed this little ritual, and yet I found myself moved by it somehow, and I stood there for several minutes before I was able to force myself to shake it off and join the knot of people tangling their way to work through the garbled streets.
Our Father
I was, as usual, in the city early before work. Not that I was in any hurry to get to work, I just liked watching the city wake up, enjoyed walking the streets as the cleaners swept away the sins and follies of the previous day.
On this sun-blasted morning I decided to go and sit in St Mary’s Cathedral for a while. I don’t really know why. Curiosity I guess. As the city expanded to the south and west this once imposing building seemed more and more to be on the fringes of the CBD, rather than near its heart. Which seemed somehow apt.
I sat there for maybe forty minutes or so. It was nice. Nothing spectacular, I mean I couldn’t say that I felt anything spiritual, but I enjoyed the quietness. I especially enjoyed watching people who were obviously on their way to work drop in and light a candle, bow their heads for a couple of minutes, then disappear into the morning rush. I envied them their belief.
I left through the back entrance toward the restrooms. As I walked in a guy was washing himself thoroughly at the sink. He had no shoes on and his feet were black with dirt. I guess it’s hard to wash your feet in the sink.
As I turned to leave he said something, but it came out so fast that I wasn’t sure what he’d said or even if it had been directed at me.
“Sparechangemister?” he repeated, pushing the sounds together so that it came out as one word. The close confines of the washroom gave the situation an intimacy that made it impossible to say no.
When I opened my wallet I realised that I only had a $10 note, and although it was more than I had intended to give, it was too late to do anything else. I held the note out hesitantly until he grabbed it and stuffed into his pocket.
“Whatsyourname?”
I wondered whether to give him a false name, though it occurred to me that this was more than a little paranoid, and also a glimpse into a prejudice I didn’t even know I had.
“Joshua,” I offered finally.
“I’mgonnaprayforyouJoshua.”
Before I could think of a suitable response he had already launched into his obviously well-rehearsed oration.
“Ourfatherwhoartinheaventhyki ngdomcomethywillbedoneonearth asitisinheavengiveusthisdaily breadandforgiveusourtrespasse sasweforgivethosewhotrespassa gainstusandleadusnotintotempt ationbutdeliverusfromevilfort hineisthekingdomthepowerandth egloryforeverandeveramen.”
The words fumbled out in a torrent, with no clear sense of purpose or direction, and it seemed that he had already spun on his heel and disappeared into the glare of the morning before the words had fully settled.
God only knows how many times he had performed this little ritual, and yet I found myself moved by it somehow, and I stood there for several minutes before I was able to force myself to shake it off and join the knot of people tangling their way to work through the garbled streets.
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