The Sheltering Sky

He had an ordinary face. He seemed an ordinary person. As ordinary as many others who stepped in during the end game. You see many people like this during a disaster; people who step up to lend a hand, without being asked, without being paid, even without being thanked.

It doesn't really matter where the end game came from does it? I'm sure the Russians or the Chinese weren't that stupid. Was Osama that fanatical? Of course, he didn't have it, and he didn't get it from the Syrians, who didn't get it from the Iraqis either. But does it matter?

What matters were the ordinary faces. They kept the crops coming in, as long as they could. They kept delivering supplies, as long as they could. They buried the corpses, first with caskets, then with wooden boxes, and finally with sewn-up sheets...for as long as they could. And they came to the hospitals and makeshift care centers to do what they could. First, for their loved ones. But, then as their loved ones moved on, they stayed behind and did what they could.

I would see him working tirelessly, with mop and bucket, cleaning up the bile and gore that the dying would exude. He would stop and comfort those who needed comfort. I don't know how he did it, but he would come up with small things now and again to bring in some joy; a flower, a cup of coffee (where did he find coffee?), even a family relic such as a picture. Did he sleep? Did he eat? Like many of the others with the ordinary face, he did not seem to need either.

At the end, it was a comfort that he helped me to maintain my dignity as my insides seemingly poured out of me by trying to keep me clean. And, as I lay dying, I was struck by the thought that his clean-shaven face ought to be bearded.

(Copyright 2008 by F.P. Kiesche III. All rights reserved.)