I saw the Old Man once as I parked by a river at midnight. I sat there on the hood, as I do, with my boots on the bumper and leather keeping the chill at bay. It was quiet and so was He. I looked over and He was there, looking at me. His words came to me on a breeze in the fall leaves. An owl called on the ridge above.
“You’ve done pretty good, kid. Better than you think. I know you’ve felt alone, but you weren’t. I’ve sent angels. They’ve had your back. To some I send bright envoys with golden wings and brilliant robes, but you don’t need those, do you? You wouldn’t trust them if I had. No. You get the dark ones with grim eyes and knowing grins. My best for dark nights and stayed dawns. Hands dirtied, like yours have been, on missions that don’t always turn out. I think that’s what you’ve needed. You’ve even seen them if you’ll think back. You’ve felt them pushing you.
“You’re going to be okay. And I’m going to keep sending them. It suits you.”
And with that He slapped me on the back of the head, knocking my ratty old ball cap askew. When I looked up He was gone. That same owl sounded again, and the breeze was still.