Fr. John Miller

Carefully combed and parted, his wispy hair was as white as candle wax, and floated gently across his brow. He stumbled slightly as he hobbled along, exuding a curious energy, pleasantly unexpected like warm silvery snow.

I’m eighty-three, I’ll have you know, he explained to the congregation.
To Fr. Miller, age wasn’t an unpleasant thing, or a heavy burden, but just a gentle nudge in the right direction, the winter before the spring he believed would come in the next life.

Thick glasses sat contentedly on his nose, like window frames into a world of misty murmuring memories; every now and then, as the old priest leaned back comfortably in his chair, his ancient brown eyes would become hazy, staring at something far, far away, a long time ago.

His sermon was short, and as he spoke he had a habit of hunching his shoulders, right up to his soft, floppy ears. Once in a while, he would falter in his speech and he would stutter softly on his final syllable, staring in wonder at something that no one else could see.

Once the mass was over, I watched him putting away his vestments. He hummed gently to himself, a soft and pleasant murmuring, like the sound of a distant church bell twirling and dancing on the wind.

I stood outside the church, waiting for my taxi, and the smoky blue twilight stretched infinitely across my head. The moon was smiling down on the world like an old friend that night, his hazy white face glimmering. On the street before me cars buzzed and streaked past, and whistled evilly as the cold dark air streamed across their slick, oily windscreens, wing mirrors stabbing sideways like antennae on a locust.

Turning my head I saw Fr. Miller, and gasped. Hobbling serenely across the road, he chuckled gently at the past, his white hair streaming in the icy wind.

And bearing down on him, a black car sped towards his fragile figure. Like a dirty animal, headlights glaring, engine gasping and spluttering and snorting, the car stampeded madly onwards.
It would never stop in time.

And in the sparkling starlight, Fr. Miller turned his head towards me, and as our eyes connected, a faint smile tugged at floppy corners of his ancient mouth, his dark brown eyes twinkling merrily.

The car continued driving, passing straight through the figure of Fr. Miller, who continued to hobble happily onwards, eerily shimmering, and humming a gentle lullaby to forgotten times.