George Tiller can't bring himself to open the box of his wife's belongings, neither can he compose himself to pray - but what he can do is perform a miracle...
Reverend George Tiller couldn’t compose himself to pray. His mind kept sliding away to other things: the stiffness of his knees as they pressed against the prickly texture of the rug beside the bed, whether or not he should throw out the yoghurt in the fridge, how much water he should give the tiny evergreen hedge which he had planted at the end of the garden. He spoke the words as always, but couldn’t empty his brain of the jumble of everyday worries that threatened to overwhelm him. He lowered his forehead onto the bed as he used to when he was a child saying his night- time prayers. The familiar, slightly singed smell of the woollen blankets did nothing to soothe him. He gave up.
With a sigh he raised himself slowly to a crouch, and then levered himself upright by leaning one hand on the bed and the other on the box at its foot. It was months since he had moved to this house in the market town of his childhood but this box had never been unpacked. It had seemed improper somehow to stow it away in the loft, yet too risky to open it. He knew what was inside so well, had relived the day he packed it so many times, that there was really no need to open it. He even knew the order in which the items lay; the brush and mirror set with their red silk backs embroidered with little birds, black plastic hairdryer, pillbox with tiger-eye lid. Beneath these lay the CD player with Chopin’s nocturnes still inside, bed jacket, nightdress. Last things. No, he decided yet again, best leave the box exactly as it was...
Reverend George Tiller couldn’t compose himself to pray. His mind kept sliding away to other things: the stiffness of his knees as they pressed against the prickly texture of the rug beside the bed, whether or not he should throw out the yoghurt in the fridge, how much water he should give the tiny evergreen hedge which he had planted at the end of the garden. He spoke the words as always, but couldn’t empty his brain of the jumble of everyday worries that threatened to overwhelm him. He lowered his forehead onto the bed as he used to when he was a child saying his night- time prayers. The familiar, slightly singed smell of the woollen blankets did nothing to soothe him. He gave up.
With a sigh he raised himself slowly to a crouch, and then levered himself upright by leaning one hand on the bed and the other on the box at its foot. It was months since he had moved to this house in the market town of his childhood but this box had never been unpacked. It had seemed improper somehow to stow it away in the loft, yet too risky to open it. He knew what was inside so well, had relived the day he packed it so many times, that there was really no need to open it. He even knew the order in which the items lay; the brush and mirror set with their red silk backs embroidered with little birds, black plastic hairdryer, pillbox with tiger-eye lid. Beneath these lay the CD player with Chopin’s nocturnes still inside, bed jacket, nightdress. Last things. No, he decided yet again, best leave the box exactly as it was...