The purple flower drew the man's attention; he could hold it up to the sun's rays, slanting across
the heavy boughs of the trees, molten gold in the late summer sun. He could feel the stares of
the people in the park as he walked along the river, and wondered when one of them would call
the police.
The man did not really care; he did not remember how many times he had been rousted out of
town, and usually being arrested was a favor. As dangerous as jail cells could be, they had a
roof, and heat and food and a bed. And a stinky old homeless man rarely drew the wrath of the
others there.
He did not now remember how many streams and railroad tracks he had walked down; how
many empty days, when he gave what food he had to those who were even worse off than him.
He was emaciated, and had a beard to the middle of his chest.
He remembered only one thing; the moment when he had squeezed the trigger, and killed that
which he loved. If there was a devil, surely that being had possessed him that day.
His true growth came when he realized it was not the devil, but himself who had pulled the
trigger for so many wrong reasons - for what amounted, in the end, to simply not caring. He
expected no forgiveness - he would not forgive himself. He would pay for his crimes and he had
been paying for it ever since - he would pay for it till his death, and forever after.
He was drawn out of his reverie; he looked up to see a woman, yanking on her leg as though it
was a prop; it was stuck between railroad ties, and even as he registered this he heard the
whistle of the train.
He reached the girl, and saw that she had already yanked the knot tight; the boot she had on
was wedged solid, and her foot was stuck in it no less solidly - he saw a dark headed man
running towards them for just a moment, and then went to work on the knot.
He had tried two hard yanks to the woman's leg; they didn't work.
He thought of the purple flower, and admired the girl for no longer screaming. He could see the
tension in her leg, could feel the light touch of her fingers on his shoulder. He tried to blink the
tears out of his eyes. I am so sorry, he whispered - to the girl, to all those he had ever hurt, to the
woman he had loved in particular. I am so sorry I was not better.
Through the light touch of her fingers on his shoulder he felt redemption, and felt a sense he had
not for most of his life; he felt forgiveness. The sensation was totally devoid of his desires, all of
which were focused on the knot - but it nonetheless allowed him to focus, if possible, even more
attention to the stubborn thing.
It was absurd that life, in the end, should hang on a string.
The day stretched to taffy; the golden sunlight hung in the air, and he blinked away the sight of
the purple flower even as he unfastened the knot.
He pushed her sharply, throwing her off the tracks an instant before the train, spitting sparks and
shrieking noises, took him to his death.
His last sight was of the eyes of the woman he had saved; he smiled, and wondered what her
name was.
Life is redemption; life is love; life is compassion, and forgiveness - it is the sight of the sun, with
shafts of light so solid they seem as though you could walk upon them. It is the scent of a flower,
and the feel of your love's heart, beating beneath the thin skin and fragile ribs. It is warmth and
home, even when you know none of those things may exist - and most of all, it is everlasting.
the heavy boughs of the trees, molten gold in the late summer sun. He could feel the stares of
the people in the park as he walked along the river, and wondered when one of them would call
the police.
The man did not really care; he did not remember how many times he had been rousted out of
town, and usually being arrested was a favor. As dangerous as jail cells could be, they had a
roof, and heat and food and a bed. And a stinky old homeless man rarely drew the wrath of the
others there.
He did not now remember how many streams and railroad tracks he had walked down; how
many empty days, when he gave what food he had to those who were even worse off than him.
He was emaciated, and had a beard to the middle of his chest.
He remembered only one thing; the moment when he had squeezed the trigger, and killed that
which he loved. If there was a devil, surely that being had possessed him that day.
His true growth came when he realized it was not the devil, but himself who had pulled the
trigger for so many wrong reasons - for what amounted, in the end, to simply not caring. He
expected no forgiveness - he would not forgive himself. He would pay for his crimes and he had
been paying for it ever since - he would pay for it till his death, and forever after.
He was drawn out of his reverie; he looked up to see a woman, yanking on her leg as though it
was a prop; it was stuck between railroad ties, and even as he registered this he heard the
whistle of the train.
He reached the girl, and saw that she had already yanked the knot tight; the boot she had on
was wedged solid, and her foot was stuck in it no less solidly - he saw a dark headed man
running towards them for just a moment, and then went to work on the knot.
He had tried two hard yanks to the woman's leg; they didn't work.
He thought of the purple flower, and admired the girl for no longer screaming. He could see the
tension in her leg, could feel the light touch of her fingers on his shoulder. He tried to blink the
tears out of his eyes. I am so sorry, he whispered - to the girl, to all those he had ever hurt, to the
woman he had loved in particular. I am so sorry I was not better.
Through the light touch of her fingers on his shoulder he felt redemption, and felt a sense he had
not for most of his life; he felt forgiveness. The sensation was totally devoid of his desires, all of
which were focused on the knot - but it nonetheless allowed him to focus, if possible, even more
attention to the stubborn thing.
It was absurd that life, in the end, should hang on a string.
The day stretched to taffy; the golden sunlight hung in the air, and he blinked away the sight of
the purple flower even as he unfastened the knot.
He pushed her sharply, throwing her off the tracks an instant before the train, spitting sparks and
shrieking noises, took him to his death.
His last sight was of the eyes of the woman he had saved; he smiled, and wondered what her
name was.
Life is redemption; life is love; life is compassion, and forgiveness - it is the sight of the sun, with
shafts of light so solid they seem as though you could walk upon them. It is the scent of a flower,
and the feel of your love's heart, beating beneath the thin skin and fragile ribs. It is warmth and
home, even when you know none of those things may exist - and most of all, it is everlasting.
REDEMPTION
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