Fading, Lingering Memories:

A police officer was on duty one day. He was resting on a telephone pole, having a coffee cup in his hand. It was a cloudy day and there was a gentle rain, almost like a mist descending gently upon the city. He was alone on duty and his squad car, he had left some blocks behind in order to patrol the neighborhood on foot. It was a good community; that is, the police were rarely called to this section of town. And so when he 

spotted, the block over, a couple of young teenagers getting into a fistfight, he was mildly surprised. The police officer looked again and then dropped the coffee cup in his hand, began to move quickly in the direction of the group. The group surrounding the two fighting had grown. They were encircling around the space between two apartment buildings and from where the police officer stood, he could not see them because of this group. With a shout, he burst through the group of people when he was grabbed from behind and shoved into the center of the crowd. The wall was facing his back as he turned. All of a sudden, the two fighting turned their attention towards him. And then realizing what they had done, or rather what had happened, they panicked. One by one, their rage turned inwards on themselves and then upon the police officer. And as they couple darted towards him, helpless then, seated on the ground, he fumbled for his pistol. He was not able to reach his pistol in time. And feeling a foot compress his hand into the pavement below, he glanced up in frustration when he was struck across his face. A second later, he was hit by a blinding force, his vision clouded across with light and a deep, throbbing pain cobwebbed across his torso. When his vision returned, he looked down and saw the blood across his uniform, beginning to pool on the ground. The crowd broke immediately and they all ran in different directions. The two who had attacked the police officer were the first to leave. One of them, the one who had committed the crime, carried the knife with him. The police officer watched them all run away. His mind raced. His heart pounded. Both with the shock and the hurt. Left alone, the police officer glanced around him. His back was poised against the wall of the building behind him. His eyes slowly shutting, he spotted a man running towards him. He heard a faint voice, realizing it wasn’t a whisper but that his hearing was giving out. The voice was saying, “Disrespect for authority,” and then, “What kind of people are these?” Then there was a string of shadows.

After, when the police officer woke, he was laying on a hospital bed. There, his family surrounded him and there were was a man whom he didn’t recognize. He began to speak but found himself to be unusually weak. His wife rubbed his forehead. “Rest,” 

she said. And falling asleep again, he dreamed about what happened to him. 

“Who are you?” They thought he was still sleeping. The man he had seen earlier by his bedside approached him gently and held his hand. His wife said, “This is the man who called the ambulance. He gave you CPR and compressed the wound until they arrived.” 

The man gazed deeply into his eyes, as he lay on the hospital bed.

“I am Michael,” the man said deliberately. “It’s okay. There will be justice. Just trust. Things are going to get better. Rest now. There is work for you to do.”

“Thank you, Michael. I’m sorry I couldn’t remember you,” the police officer began, “what do you mean, there is work to be. . .” 

And in that instant, Michael vanished from before their eyes. The space around him became like mist. The police officer and his wife reached out to the empty space where he had been almost impulsively and, nearly as soon as he had vanished they had no memory of the man. But when they slept that evening, their minds were overcome by loving dreams of protection and hope. Waking, they told each other about the dream and were startled by the similarities. They were troubled and tried anxiously to deliberate a word that was common in both of their dreams. They could not quite place their fingers on it. M- Mat- Micah-. No, that wasn’t it. - From my Book Fables of Good Will.

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