FRED AND THE LONELY LITTLE HOUSE

Fred was a scruffy little man who lived alone in his once tidy little house on 10th street. He and the house didn’t have many visitors, maybe a few friends from the synagogue or an old, old friend from before the clutter and the wrinkles had set in.  Fred and the lonely little house enjoyed each other’s company, tucked away amongst the bustle and hubbub of the city. They enjoyed a calm solitude where they could read a book or listen to an old song or reminisce about days gone by. Hugged by an ancient sweater, Fred would shuffle through the detritus of their years together, gathering dust like unused recollections laying neglected in the hallways and the cupboards - carefully laid away and then carelessly forgotten. They were happy with their loneliness, the man and the little house, they had grown accustomed to the contradiction of their lonely happiness. They had learned that happy and lonely were not exactly enemies; so they had called a truce and they lived together, Fred and the lonely little house and the happiness and the clutter and the memories both dusty and bright and the clock on the wall mercilessly ticking.

Until one day at the door of the lonely little house an Angel appeared. She was dazzlingly radiant, bold and kind, she exuded energy and a vibrant bustle. She seemed to already know him. She seemed to already understand him. She seemed to already love him! She spoke alarmingly fast and in her voice was a confidence and a grace that left Fred feeling dizzy.  She reminded Fred of the morning sunlight streaming through the cracks of the venetian blinds, insistently finding its way in, touching the sleeve of his old robe, laying warmly on his shoulder and brushing aside the chill on his cheek; glaringly bright in the corner of his eye as he watched the steam rise from his cup - but not at all unpleasant. And in the tumult and confusion of the moment Fred and the lonely little house didn’t notice that the clock on the wall had stopped for a moment, just to watch and then reluctantly started again.

And as the seconds and minutes and years ticked away Fred would show the Angel his quiet collection of memories, the kind and gentle thoughtfulness of his world and she would show him the busy and bright boisterousness of hers. You see, like Fred, the Angel was a collector too - but the Angel was a collector of souls.  The Angel would pull Fred into her big busy house where he would enjoy the cacophony and laughter of rooms crowded with her collection of family and friends and acquaintances and hangers-on. And as time passed Fred would enjoy countless holidays and visits and celebrations and slowly, slowly the lonely happiness that Fred and the little house had once known was replaced by a different sort of happiness, a belonging kind of happiness, because right next door, always beside them, was a big busy house, a house where an Angel lived. An Angel who loved them.