Vision of Andrew by Paul Jones

 

Andy had become so religious that he demanded that we stop the car at every railroad crossing. The signs, he said, were signs of Saint Andrew his Name Saint and Patron. Andy wanted to get out and kneel at each one. “You were first to recognize Him. Now recognize me, Your child,” he shouted to wherever he imagined Andrew might be hiding. Around some building, in bushes, inside the crossing signals, any bus or truck passing, a pair of blue birds, the sky as blue as the flag of Scotland. Or its mirrored stigmata, the cross of blood on Andy’s wrist.