Current Issue 2026

“And Abraham stretched forth his hand, and took the knife to slay his son.” 

Genesis 22:10. 

“I wish we had more time.” 

Those desperate, dolorous words fell lifelessly upon the cold hospital floor. All around him shone the gleaming white surfaces of sterilized walls and tables, interspersed with various electronic instruments, IV stands, and the usual paraphernalia of a hospital. Clearing his throat, he began again. 

“I wish we had more ti-” 

The words died upon his lips. Next to him lay an empty hospital bed. He had seen it, doubtless, when he had stolen away into the empty room, seeking solitude. Yet only now did his mind fully register the sight. It stood like a silent grave, beckoning forth death and decay. It reminded him, conjuring forth those monstrous images of the evening news: images of withered, skeletal hands, of gaunt, sunken cheeks… 

He looked away, casting his eyes back down upon the wrinkled paper in his hands. He had written it mere hours ago. He had only found out mere days before that. It had been at least two years since he had seen his son. It had been a mere chance encounter, a twist of fate which now seared in his memory with a renewed sense of regret. He had been awaiting the train at Fulton Station, his mind focused on the minutiae of the day’s latest business venture, entirely unexpectant of reunion. Yet when the doors at last slid open, he found himself mere feet away from him—a familiar, painful face amidst the swarm of departing passengers. Fueled by his cowardice, he had averted that gaze—a gaze of recognition, of hopeful affection—quickly forcing his way into the train while the exiting crowd prevented his son from staying aboard, strangers’ bodies pushing him onto the platform. No word had been exchanged, save one: a singular “Dad?”, shouted from the platform just as the doors slid closed

Perhaps that was why it had taken him days to make the trip to St. Joseph’s, that same sense of cowardice which thwarted their impromptu reunion that day. Still, the moment came to him now, just as it had plagued him over the past two years, a constant reminder of his act of filicide. Despite his feigned indifference at the time, that moment had undoubtedly changed him. His prior convictions began to crumble, confronted with a living, breathing consequence of his actions—an abandoned child, a displaced son. Doubt and hesitancy had consumed him since then. And now, at last, his faith failed him. He grasped for some meaning in these circumstances. Was this a test of God’s? Was it a divine punishment for sin? Yet, if so, whose? His son lay dying, withering away into nothingness. “The Lord rained fire upon Sodom,” the words came to him, recalling the furious gesturing of a childhood pastor, who, with a firm, booming voice, had shook his fist with conviction. “Rained fire.” Was it not he who had rained fire upon his son, in his own, modern twist? Casting him out one fateful evening into the freezing New York night, even against the frail protestations of his wife? Had he not done so out of conviction, the same with which the pastor had shook his fist? And yet he faltered now. Despite every past teaching, every dogma which had thus far persisted in his mind, crushing any prior chance of reconciliation between father and son, he could not bring himself to view this thing—this disease, as a punishment. It was as though his aching paternal heart had burst through, shattering those icy chains of conviction which had restrained him for so long.

***

He had come here, after all, even if after days of wasteful hesitancy. And he had written it out, this morning, his…his apology. At first, he had struggled to think of it that way, as though he had something to apologize for. Yet now, the dark cloud of uncertainty which had surrounded the past few years seemed to dissipate slightly. Those lonely years of separation, gnawing away at 

his heart, masked in apathy, exposing the tender parental love within. For a moment now, he cared little for faith, possessing only an instinctual affection for his child. He wanted to see his son. He had to. 

Yet he needed something to say, now. Something for when he saw him. It was only mere moments from now. He was merely rehearsing, gathering up the strength to walk across the hallway into his son’s room. To close the gap in only a few feet what had taken several years to build. 

He at last felt ready. But, hearing a knock, he turned again, making his way to the door. Doubtless someone had seen him enter the room. Someone likely needed it now, he thought. It was a busy night at the hospital, after all. 

Opening the door, he looked into the face of a nurse, her expression betraying the news her lips failed to form. 

*** 

He sat on one of the cushioned chairs of the hospital lobby. The president droned on monotonously through the television set: 

“Now let me turn to what the States can do. Some are already at work. While recognizing the individual’s choice, I encourage States to offer routine testing for those who seek marriage licenses and for those who visit sexually transmitted disease or drug abuse clinics. And I encourage States to require-” 

His mind shut out the noise. He could not listen to it. He could not listen to anything. He merely stood up, and, at last, left the lobby, exiting onto the sidewalk, walking home through the cold, cold night air. 

It was a punishment, he thought.