Eight


One. “I’ve begged.” On the streets. For petty cash.


Two. “I’ve stolen.” I stole a puppy once. No one ever found out.


Three. “I’ve lied.” In court. In front of a Judge.


Four. “I talk to God.”


Five. “I’m not Whole.” I have missing parts. Irreplaceable.


Six. “I know no Hate.” I hate no one and no thing. Never have. Never will.


Seven. “I’ve played Hero.” I’ve saved lives.

“Here comes another one!” I yelled at my brother. He stood a couple of steps ahead of me, knee deep in the brook. It was mid summer. Hot. My brother and I used to spend whole days in the small brook which ran past our grandparents’ house. He always stood a few steps in front of me, legs apart and slightly bent at the knees, hands together forming a cup half way in the water breaking its smooth surface and causing ripples. The ripples always made it harder on me to see. But I stood there too, legs apart and slightly bent at the knees, hands to my side palms out, fingertips just touching the surface of the water. Waiting. We never had to wait long. They always came. Tens of them. Dozens. A few dozens. I lost count. Poor little flies, bees, ants, and all sorts of unfortunate bugs fallen in the water, drowning, struggling to no avail. We saved them. We scooped them up from the water and threw them to the side of the brook to dry and go on their merry way. We were good. The ones my brother missed, were my souls to save. We were a good team. At the end of the day our feet and hands were so wrinkled, they resembled a sponge. But we felt good. We were heroes. At night, when we lay in bed, I’d wonder what happens to all the bugs that fall in the brook when we’re not there. But that lasted only a couple of seconds and then I drifted off to sleep.


Eight. “I’ve seen A Forest’s Soul.”

I lay in my sleeping bag on the damp hard ground. It was the middle of the night. The forest was cold, dark and quiet. I was being shaken awake. I opened my eyes. The man who was shaking me was crouching on the ground beside me. In the darkness, I could only barely make out his outline but I knew who he was. “What is it?” I mumbled half asleep.
“Get up” he whispered, “Come with me. I want to show you something.”
Unwillingly, I got up and out of my warm sleeping bag. Ouch. I realized I had no socks on and it hurt to walk barefoot on the forest floor. He leaned down and picked me up piggy-back. He walked slowly through the sleepy forest without making a sound. I was wide awake now, eyes piercing through the darkness, slowly getting accustomed to it and starting to make out outlines and shadowy shapes. The forest seemed magical in the dead of night. So quiet. Suddenly, he stopped.
“Look” he whispered and pointed somewhere ahead of us. I pulled myself up a bit on his back so I can peep over his left shoulder. A few steps ahead of where we stood, a tree glowed. The bottom of the tree was surrounded by a faint, fuzzy, white light which crawled up the trunk of the tree reflected by the mist in the air. A second tree glowed not too far away from that one and another and another here and there throughout the whole forest. It was the most beautiful and magical sight.
“What is it?” I whispered my question in his ear.
“It’s the Spirit of the Forest, son.” he said.
I know now it was phosphorus deposits which accumulate around the base of trees in a forest absorbing light during the day and emitting it out at night. But then, so many years ago, I sat wide-eyed on my father’s back in the middle of the night in the middle of the forest and watched the Spirit of the Forest dance around the trees right out of a fairytale.