easterangel-ga -- a small token of gratitude for your help.
THE COSMOGONY OF GEORGE
When Michael walked into the room, the children wiggled with
excitement in their chairs and blew kisses. He apologized to the
adults for being late and quietly took a seat with the other Elders
near the head of the table, his broad smile acknowledging those
already seated.
The probate lawyer cleared his throat. "Is that everyone?"
One of the children suddenly bolted across the room and jumped into
Michael's lap. Repressing a grin, he wrapped his large arms around the
giggling six-year-old and silently mouthed the word "sorry" to the
child's mother, then gently whispered into the young boy's ear and the
room once again became silent.
"All right then," said the lawyer. "I hold here in my hands the final
instructions of George..." He removed his bifocals and squinted at the
surname.
From the back of the room, a rich baritone voice: "It would not be
incorrect to pronounce it "dew-mond."
"Why, yes, of course," said the attorney, "I just never saw it spelled that way."
"We don't care how you spell or pronounce it, Esquire," offered a
softspoken Elder named Rebecca, "we just want to divide up the dough
so we can go home and make cookies."
Michael smiled as the room exploded in howls of laughter and spirited whistles.
Jebediah, who would celebrate his seventh birthday in less than a
week, shifted his position in Michael's lap and tugged on his shirt
collar. "What's happening?"
"I promise to tell you if we can agree on whispers."
"Deal." said the excited youngster.
"Your grandfather died last year after a long illness and we're here
today to honor his final wishes."
"Grandfather? I never met him, did I, Michael?"
"No. After his wife died, he became a recluse, living in his garage
until his death."
"My brother said he was a crazy artist or inventor and that you're one
of his bastard inventions."
"Is that so?"
"That's right. And he said whatever's in that garage is evil and
should be destroyed."
"And what do you think, Jebediah?"
"I don't know what to think. Could I see the garage?"
Michael weighed the question for a moment. "We'll have to sneak out. Are you game?"
Thirty minutes later, Michael raised the electric doors on an old,
nondescript, two-car garage. ?Well, here it is, the life's work of
your grandather, George Oliver DuMonde.?
When the doors finished their noisy, clattering ascent, Jebediah found
himself staring into an empty room: a handful of tools, oily rags and
a single chunk of Styrofoam were all that remained on the dusty,
concrete floor. "THIS is what Grandfather did with his life?" he said,
to no one in particular. Walking slowly through the garage he felt a
wave of melancholy and fatigue. "I'm tired. I want to go home," he
announced and turned toward Michael and the open doors. But only
inches from his face, a thick, heavy, black cloud now filled the
entire front half of the garage.
"Are you there, Michael?" he pleaded, marshalling the courage not to
panic and bolt. "I'm trapped by a huge cloud."
Michael said nothing.
As the cloud continued to grow, the child's eyes grew wide with terror
and his heart pounded violently against his chest. When the cloud
finally absorbed him, he closed his eyes and cried out one last time.
A microsecond later, Michael, now standing beside him whispered, "Open
your eyes and meet your grandfather."
Jebediah stood transfixed, unable to move. "Oh, my." he repeated over
and over, as billions of stars, galaxies, supernovae and solar systems
rushed by him in an ever expanding kaleidoscope of brilliant color.
"Oh, my."
As tears of joy spilled onto his shirt, Jebediah said, "My
grandfather, where is he now?"
"Everywhere," said Michael.
?This is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. What did Grandfather call it??
?The Universe.?
?And you, Michael," asked Jebediah, grasping his hand. "What did
Grandfather call you?"
Michael flexed his massive shoulders and unfurled an enormous pair of
thick, white wings he affectionately wrapped around the boy.
"Archangel."
(c)copyright MKB, 2005 |
