Shepherds should be young–not bitter old men like me.

Last year brought ghosts: a child I imagined mine, a memory of a woman. Now there’s only reality: grinding joints, dead sheep, tight skin over weak ribs. 

I knew my flock once. Called by name. Now I forget myself.

Oblivion’s a mercy. Won’t survive winter, anyway.

But what do I see? Painful noise, strangeness shining above? Do others–young men with fathers and futures–see it too? Could this radiance bend to close my eyes? Can glory touch common flesh?

Not mine, I’m sure. Still–the music comforts as I lay down in death.

This story is part of Loren Eaton’s Advent Ghost tradition. Check out all the other cold winter tales here!