The Tall Man

A wise woman once told me a story of a vision that had lent her solace during a time of sorrow, a time when we both grieved and bowed low under the crushing burden of loss.

Her story spoke of a tall man, and of my son.

My baby had grown cold one night, never to awaken again, never to smile again. My anguish reached far beyond the endless realm of sorrow, far beyond the lowest depths of the bottomless well of all the tears ever shed, and dragged my broken heart into the lightless abyss of shattered dreams.

Her loss was also mine, for her father had been my friend and had guided me with a strong, loving hand through my youth. The vision of the wise woman was that of a tall man smiling as his gnarled hand gently held the tiny fingers of an infant, and she could see clearly that they still existed on the far side of a veiled curtain where light glowed eternally.

Her story made me smile through the hidden tears that never seem to pass, and in some way my pain was eased and long-lost hope seemed possible to feel again. Out there in the shadowy land that lies beyond the understanding of our human senses, the tall man and my son walk hand-in-hand, still smiling, as they wait for me and the wise woman, my sister.

Nigel P Kent, 1998.