|
|||||||
|
|
|
|||||
|
|
|||||||
The old man stumbled through the thick, swirling desert sand. He tried to keep his tired eyes on the path before him, but the shifting afternoon sand kept confusing his already troubled mind.
How did I get here? How long have I been out here? Is there no water? Is this how I will die?
He could barely even remember his name now, let alone what had led him out into this vast desert, this unforgiving wilderness of relentless sunlight and choking dust. The sand stung his eyes and he instinctively covered them with his hands. But when he saw his hands, all his anguish and torment crashed down on his heart anew. On his hands, encrusted with dried sand, he could see what had brought him out into this waste, far removed from any who might care for him.
Leprosy.
It had eaten clear through parts of him. Dead chunks of skin hung from his hands, revealing an under layer of pinkish flesh now tainted white as the leprosy mercilessly chewed down to the bone. He groaned, thrusting his hands into his robe, stumbling forward and squeezing his eyes shut.
How I wish I would die out here! Please, just let it all end! I had everything! Everything! And now, look at me . . . a wasted shell of a man, crippled by leprosy, shunned by my people, wandering alone in a desert grave . . .
He suddenly fell to his knees. Sharp pain stabbed through his legs. Sand whipped at his back. The thick heat weighed down on his shoulders. He sighed, letting his body go limp. Perhaps I should just kneel here, until the sand covers me, and just let it all go . . .
But as he knelt in the desert, like the barest glimpse of a long forgotten memory, he could see in his mind’s eye a crowd . . . a joyous crowd, filled with laughter and song and dance . . . and he could see his father, his brave, dear father . . .
