the book of mercy

image from here

We were at Friendly's. Home from college, old high school buddies. Maybe we were a little too loud, a little too boisterous. The waitress had been rude the whole meal, was slow with the orders and the water, though the place was empty. When it came time to pay we thought to shortchange her on the tip but one of my friends put in extra, more than what was even normal. When asked why she said, "Maybe the waitress was having a bad day."

Mercy--

Old man and his dog, fresh from the groomer's, weathered face, flannel and Levis: farm uniform. At the end of the leash he's holding is a little tan and white dog with a bow on its neck, wagging his little tail furiously. The man says its name is Larry. He bought Larry from the local rescue after his last dog died. It was his first rescue. Larry had been abused in his old life, bullets still lodged under his skin, but you can't see them now, only the bow on his collar and the way his tongue hangs out the side of his mouth when you pet him.

Mercy--

High school friend, known him since middle school, all of us going through all the awkward and angsty teen years together, is killed in Afghanistan. Everyone in three towns shows up to line the streets from the local base where his family received his body and back here, keep him company on the last drive home. At his wake and funeral the place is packed and there are so many people standing, being there, they had to close off the roads.

Miles and miles of mercy--