God Does Not Have an Eraser



David  walked down Bourbon Street  and turned right onto St. Peter’s Street , the air was pungent with the     odors of the night before and the fog that had moved in from the Mississippi River kept it close to the ground. David had never smelt such an odor, he watched as the street crew washed off the spilled beer from the night before and others gather large bags of trash to throw into the truck  that stood double parked on St. Peter’s almost at the Jackson Square. Not many people were about and the whole area appeared to be suffering from the hangover of a night of riotous living.  David felt a bit of breeze as  he reached the Square, at least here the air was breathable he thought.


He  saw her leaning against the front of St. Louis Cathedral her back against  the building her head hanging over almost in her lap, she was pitiful,  covered in layers of clothing, and no doubt she was wearing her wardrobe, skin the color of death, hair matted with the smells of the streets of the  French Quarters. He walked across Jackson Square to Café du Monda, got two beignets and a large cup of coffee, picked up a couple of cups of creamer, some sugar packs and a stirring stick and walked back to the figure of a     woman.


“Marie would you like a cup of coffee and a beignet?” he asked. She stirred, pulled her head back against the  wall of the cathedral and said, “How do you know me? I ant’s never seen you  before and I am closed, no business today, no business, go away.” “Here    take the coffee,” he said, holding it so that the aroma would fill the pungent air, “I am not here for business, just some time, how about this?”     Then he place a hundred dollar bill in her hand and watched as she waded it  and placed it inside her blouse. “You crazy man, nothing I know is worth  that much bread.” She took the coffee and beignet and taking a sip and bite  she looked with her unclear eyes into his face. “I just came to share a  minute,” he said, “I know about what happened when you were fifteen, I know     about your dad the preacher, the boy friend, your dad taking you to the Clinic in New York, the abortion, I know all of that Marie, I just wanted  to know if you remember the Sunday in July when you were nine and were saved and then baptized? I was just wondering?” “So long ago she said, so  long. I know that by now God has wiped my name from His book; I didn’t mean to do that, we just got crazy one night and then my world fell apart, Daddy  went crazy, we killed that baby and as soon as I turn eighteen I left and   have never looked back. Who are you, how do you know all of that? I must be  crazy; well I know I am after all of the years living in this hole.” “You  are not crazy mother,” David said, “Just frightened, confused, and I have  come to take you out of this hole. Drink your coffee, God does not erase  what He writes in His Son’s blood; you ready, Marie?” He held out his hand  and she looked into his eyes and said, “What did you call me?” “Marie” he  answered. “No before that, you said, mother; mother, I can’t be a mother, I can’t I am not fit.” Time to go Mom, time to go, he took her hand and they  walked toward the Andrew Jackson monument, he looked back and saw her worn out form leading now on the sidewalk of the Cathedral, “Let’s go home, mom, let’s go home.”

(This month of January we always celebrate the importance of life and the damage of abortion; this is a simple story of what might     have been. Ivan)




Published in: on January 20, 2014 at 12:05 am  Leave a Comment  

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