The Green Man

Evie, growing up too quickly for my liking, has asked me about faith, about life after death.

I will answer her, of course, but first I need to make sense of things, to confront my past.

I think of the plane crash. I think of my mother. Most of all, I think of the Green Man.

Strangely, as I think back, the pen tight in my hand, the last remnants of steam drifting from the top of my quickly cooling coffee, it is the ending I remember clearest. Blue is the colour I see, not green. It is the flashing blue lights on top of the police car that mesmerize me. The tangle of pain and confusion I feel is like nothing I have ever previously experienced, and I feel hopelessly alone. In that frozen moment in time, I am lost.
A policeman approaches me, grim faced. His jacket collar is pulled up as high as it will go to keep the rain out. I stand motionless in front of him, my saturated T-shirt clinging to my flesh.
“Mr. Jones, can I ask you a couple of questions?” he says dourly.
I stare through him with so many unanswered questions of my own. The stretcher passes me and I cannot bear to look at it. For the first time in my life I am certain that my mother’s premonition was true.
I believe in the Green Man.
At that time, belief should have given me faith, but my grief was too fresh, my nerves too raw. It came later, as time helped to soften the edges. Earlier that day, things had been different.
The plane crash changed everything.