by Meredith Davises

Created on: February 07, 2011

Herb recounted his spiritual service now starting a new phase on his journey. A humble servant, he had been rewarded with memory. He learned its importance.

Fairly early in his mission, he did not have a memory as he died a traumatic death. His mentor warned that he would have shadows of remorse through the process.

Herb recalled the warmth being the flicker of candle light giving hope to those who needed it. He had served as a flash of lightening showing a lost motorist the roadway. Herb had been a rain cloud that squelched a forest fire.

Herb became a wallet keeping it perfectly organized until the owner lost it. He was a bookmarker holding each page until the reader finished sealing the last page closed. Herb became a past due notice for a funeral that no one attended.

Herb became a reliable old car named Betsy and a favorite cast iron skillet smoking over a campfire. He had even been a wedding ring lost down a city sewer.

Herb returned as a life form, a beautiful Irish setter. He stood on a cliff overlooking the ocean sniffing the salty air feeling a gale ruffle his fur. He caught the flicker of campfire insight beneath him down the steep slope.

He walked with a limp looking disheveled with singed hair. The smell from the campfire made him hungry wanting to see what was cooking. An uninvited guest, he took refuge under an old car nearby whimpering to be called.

A suspicious camper eyed him so he waged his tail as if surrendering to fate. A beef patty was tossed in his direction. He wiggled from under the car snatching a bite wagging his friendly tail thanks. He laid down whimpering feeling a gentle hand petting him.

The sun came up, the camper packed, and he found himself on a blanket in the old car as it rolled down the highway. His new master was not much of a talker. An Irish setter does not notice such things since a gentle stroke behind his ears said it all.

They were a perfectly organized pair knowing each other as a well read book. It was when the Irish setter tracked a worn ring box to the bottom of an old cedar chest that he knew the pain of loss was near.

Learn more about this author, Meredith Davises.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.