The Man with the Withered Hand

Act I: Walked with a cane at 34 years old.

Act II: How can he see beneath the veil?

Act III: Can he be loved?

Act I: Walked with a cane at 34 years old.

His legs looked long and lanky, but only because he was so tall, and his pants so finely tailored. He flashed past me at the museum, wearing a yellow coat and brown shoes. The walls were of vermillion as his sharp, invisible eye glanced over the hangings and displays. I paused, marking the bandage wrapped around his wrist, wobbling gently over the cane’s derby. His hairs were on fire. And he looked as the sun shineth in its strength.

He turned around, as he glanced upon a reflection in the corner of my glasses. He had not seen my face, but saw my back, as I paused briefly, wondering at the Man with the Withered Hand.

Behind me was a hanging and a display, whose starting bid was set at $100,000. It had generated much traffic, but left the visitors unsatisfied. The core of the painting had been covered, to the which no man could unveil except he that should first place a bid. I continued to walk as I studied the sculptures, and the arts, and the crafts beneath the brazen lights.

I returned again as the man spectacled upon the uncovering of the veil— himself upon the canvas.

Act II: How can he see beneath the veil?

Within the frame of a single second, as the man let go the rugged staff of his left arm, he unleashed the final band of his gauzy shackle. The staff fell, and the man’s eye was opened, and his fleshly wound healed.

Act III: Can he be loved?

Yes, for the Lord saw him under the fig tree, weeping.