'New Year’s Eve' by Al Davidson

Eleven resounding chimes bound down the corridor at the clock strikes 11:00pm, the echoing sound akin to war drums on the horizon as soldiers march onward toward battle.  Father Herring sits in the chapel, in the eleventh row of pews, and listens to the church bells chime around him.  One more hour until the new year rolls in.  He can hardly believe it.

The eleventh call from the belfry beckons to him.  So, he rises from the pew and paces back eleven lines of old wooden benches toward the pulpit.  He grabs his leather-bound bible, opens it to the eleventh Psalm and takes solace in the words.  The small pocket calendar tucked under the stacks of paper is stuck in the past, back in November, in the eleventh month.  Stuck in autumnal times.  The 11th is circled with blue pen, it was an important Sunday even if he cannot remember why.

The snowfall outside the windows flitters and flows like glitter against the pale streetlight outside.  Last he checked, the temperature would be stagnant at 11° Fahrenheit, bitterly nipping at fingers and cheeks of those who stay out to watch another year roll in.  He could hardly believe it was his eleventh year in these hallowed halls.  How blessed was he.  How blessed this New Year’s Eve with so many reminders of eleven years of grace, good fortune, and kindness.  What a powerful number indeed.