The Priest with the Cold Hands

When Rita was in intensive care there was a moment where it seemed like it was all over and her mother told me to go find the priest.

I went down to the chapel and there was an old, old priest in there. As old as Methuselah. I was frantic and I couldn’t get the words out.

That old priest held both of my hands in his and the words he spoke were like the wisdom of the ages. They slowed the whole world down and we all made it through another day.

Published by

Ragged Clown

Based in San Jose, California

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