He was on his way back from a deathbed confessional at the nursing home when he noticed it. He could only sigh, the exhalation turning to vapor and chilling his nose.

Someone—more than one person, considering the quality of the thing—had made a snowman in the meadow, and had pretended it was him.

It had a hat and pipe like Parson Brown’s own, which he found somewhat flattering. What ruined it all for him was the  sign designating his snow effigy as the “No Man.”

Brown happily answered to the old-fashioned title of Parson, since his father had been a Parson Brown before him. But in recent months the quaint nomenclature had turned on him. Now he was being called Parsimonious Parson Brown, Prissy Parson Brown and, worst of all, Impossible Parson Brown. There were letters about him in the town paper nearly every week.

He couldn’t remember the first time he’d ever said “Are you married?”—or exactly what he’d meant by it. But now this had become his catchphrase, his albatross, used by those who conspired to criticize his silence on the subject of same-sex marriage. He admitted he was conflicted. But they wouldn’t give him any peace. A conspiracy, that’s what it was.

He walked on, only to see another snowman. This one was a circus clown. Was this meant to be him as well?

Behind it, flowing from the branches of a tree, was a flowing ribbon, with signs written in the same hand as the “No Man” one, plus pictures of flapping bluebirds of happiness. “Here to stay is a new bird,” one of the placards read. “He sings a love song,” announced another.

Parson Brown headed upmeadow, now more curious than upset.

A ceremony was in progress. Two men stood hand in hand, their eyes glistening like the newfallen snow. They were reciting vows they’d written themselves:

“To face unafraid

The plans that we’ve made.”

Parson Brown silently watched them, realizing what he was being privileged to witness

He glanced around to see who was officiating. No man, it seemed. Just the snowmen.

It was a beautiful sight. And it was cold. Because it was just pretend.

Parson Brown marched forward boldly, as if stepping deliriously into a magical wonderland. He broke the wintry calm with a loud “Ahem” that was anything but frosty.

“I’m in town,” he thought. “I can do this job.”

The End

(reprinted from www.scribblers.us, 2010)