Sun broke through the window, a morning thug to awake the kids. Their faces stayed asleep until after cornflakes and TV, and then, outside.
To write. About? Maybe the sound of the track from that one album, the one they played, him and his brother, over and over except for that one track, the one that made him worry that she would be as dead as …
Words never to be said. HIde that sensitivity and pretend its all a different sort of discord, a fear of more acceptable irrationality, rather than a seven year old’s trespass into existential decline.
Twenty five or thirty five years later, what’s changed? Trapped behind “what if”, “when” and the possibility of what might be. From the corner of the eye he sees hope, but she’s too crafty and slips away, once again.