In Sheeps Clothing

Wolffe held his little sister’s hand with an iron grip as a tear slipped down his cheek. He tried to keep his head up and look the Priest directly in the eyes, but there was no use. Soon more tears found their way to the chapel floor in a little puddle on the smooth wood. He sat down wearily. His little sister reached for his fingers, winding them in hers. She looked up at him with a smile. Letting go of his sister’s hand, he buried his face in his sweating palms. Damp droplets rolled like falling stones down his arm and into the crevice of his elbow. The sticky, salty tears found their way into his nose and around his bitten lips. He was a mess, and he knew it sorely.

“It’s okay, Wolffe,” His sister whispered, patting him gently on the back. “Ed will come back tomorrow, just you see,”

Wolffe brushed her hand from his back and scooted over on the pew. He felt like looking directly at her and saying, “No he won’t. He won’t come back,” But she was only four. Too young to understand death, or hurt, or pain. Besides, it would feel so good to not know what was going on. He wished he was young again when he could play amidst a storm and still find a reason to smile. Why did happiness matter so much? His mother said it would be a shame to forget dear Ed. But hadn’t he already forgotten the other children?

“Mother, did you forget?” He had asked.

“My own children?” An overcast of clouds found its way across the eyes of the kind woman, “Sometimes I remember the faces of my children who are gone better than the children who are there,” Wolffe had flinched as if a dagger had found its home in his heart. Her words were true. Already she would do a headcount on the children, counting the three extra children who had died. Now four, as Ed had been lifted to the stars.

Too many little brothers and sisters had died. Too many little hands had reached out for the last time. Too many little chests had heaved only a few breaths. Ed was almost seven. He was a survivor of infancy. He was strong. Why God picked him was a mystery to Wolffe, and that made him angry. He shook his head to clear his mind. “Paula,” He said to his sister, “I wish I could decide who stayed in this world and who left,”

“But why? That’s God’s job, isn’t it?” She laid her little head in his lap and closed her eyes. Wolffe checked to see her breathing. Checked her pulse, her chest, her slight smile. He hoped she would never leave.

“If I had all the power in the universe,” He whispered barely loud enough to hear, “You of all would never die,”