Shelter for the Traveler

The tick of the clock overlays the bacon-frying-sizzle of wheels over wet pavement. Train horn sounding in the distance as I sit alone in the living room of my parent's house, gazing at the Saint Christopher medal hanging on a chain around my neck.  I am not Catholic or Eastern Orthodox, nor am I devout of any persuasion, so the medal seems incongruous. It is a gift from someone very close to my heart, and thereby has become something sacred in its own quiet way.  I treasure it for that, knowing this gift was given out of love.

It is late evening.  I have returned from a day at the hospital where I was helping tend to my ailing mother. My father is staying at the hospital with her overnight. She should be home tomorrow, if things continue their positive course. It is my wish, my hope, that she also receive blessings on her journey.

I have to pause a moment, listening to the clock and the train.  My right hand steals to the medal.  I run my fingers over it, the golden metal of it feeling warm and slightly slick. Closing my eyes, I hear rain falling on the roof to add its own counterpoint to the rest.

My head rests on my left hand, the medal clasped in my right. It warms to blood temperature, almost as a living thing.  I breathe, I rest, and my heart grows light and warm to know that someone watches over me on this road I am traveling.