The little boy was in a baptismal like sleeping gown. All white. They carried him to a table under a large oak tree. The table reminded me of an altar. He was ashen and his lips were chapped. His breaths came in short shallow gasps. The brain tumors were inoperable. As the crowd drew round, I placed my hand on the boys forehead.  

There was so much cancer, it was everywhere in his brain. One after another, I focused my energy on them and prayed as I tried to siphon the dark masses through a metaphysical osmosis. I felt over burdened, but I pressed on. He wouldn’t survive the night if it wasn’t eradicated here and now. 

When I lifted my hands I saw them all staring expectantly, and I just shrugged, before fainting into a long slumber. 

My mom said he was pronounced cancer free after a six month remission from the terminal brain cancer he’d been battling for over a year. The tumors had vanished. There on one scan and gone on the next.  

The house reminded me of the house depicted in the background of that famous painting of the farmer and his wife with the pitchfork. 

It was near Abilene Texas.