Monsignor Hannan reminded me of a wadded up piece of paper. Pale, bent, and curled up awkwardly at the edges in his arthritic stubs of fingers and permanently creased and bent black leather shoes. He had little, wet, blue eyes. Like someone had flung two droplets of water onto the wadded up paper, and they’dContinue reading “A story about church and trust and death”
Chris Bevens | pedalpoet 