th grief.
In a small, inside jacket pocket was a neatly folded fifty-dollar bill with a tiny note in Bob’s f***liar handwriting, “For Dad’s Masonic ring.”
If I live to be a hundred, I will never forget the look on my father’s face. Some kind of beautiful transformation took place—a touch of wonder, a hint of joy, a quiet serenity that was glorious to behold. Oh, the healing power of love！ He stood transfixed, staring at the note and the trimly folded fifty-dollar bill in his hand for what seemed an eternity; then he walked to Bob’s picture hanging prominently on the wall and solemnly saluted.
“Merry Christmas, Son, ”he murmured, and turned to welcome Christmas.
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