He listened to his own footsteps as he followed the priest into the room and began to remove his coat.
“Please close the door.”
He hung his coat on the rack. “No thank you. I’m avoiding caffeine.”
“Sit in either chair.”
He sat in the chair near the window and watched as the priest gathered a book and joined him in the sitting area.
“Let’s begin with a prayer.” The priest made the Sign of The Cross.
He made the Sign of The Cross and bowed his head.
At the conclusion of the prayer the priest began, “So tell me what's going on.”
He looked at the ceiling and judged it a story or so. He looked at the wooden bookshelves that bound the room and the punctuated plants that decorated the shelves. He looked at the carpet and widened his legs. He pushed his hips against the back of the chair and sat erect. “I don’t feel God anymore. I don’t feel anything anymore. I can’t live life numb.”
“Tell me numb.”
He stood up and walked to the window. He looked at the sleet. “God I hate snow.”
“Hate isn’t numb.”
He turned around. “No. But you don’t understand. I’m not feeling the hate. I’m remembering it.”
“Tell me more.”
“I don’t want to remember me.”
He turned toward the window and slipped his hands into his pockets. “I feel empty. I’m not here. Not anymore.”
“Give me more.”
“My heart makes all the choices. And I mean the muscle. Congestive heart failure makes my choices. So I've got no free will. What I was. What I felt. What I did. I’m like a past tense verb. Everything was. I'm just an .... absence and ... ” he struggled for the word until he found it, "and a remembrance.”
“And where is God in all this?”
“I haven’t a clue. You’re the one who’s supposed to know.”
“I don’t know I have the will to endure. I’m so afraid that was my last will and testament.”
He turned toward the priest. “How do you know?”
“Because I remember you.”
He turned toward the window. “Okay.”