rss search

Passing Time


He would walk for miles carrying items he found in brambles, hedges and puddles. He would take the challenge and burden of carrying these large obstacles, these huge beings, and do his duty. He didnʼt have to. He is eight. Itʼs the kind of thing you feel you need to do when youʼre eight. Because no one else is doing it and you want to do it first. Before someone tells you to. Thatʼs the spirit of being a kid, I remember this.

He would spend the day meticulously scouring for objects he could spend a good while staring at. Running his fingertips over the textures. He would assign them names and places and if something overtook it in the interesting stakes, he would happily discard it without hesitation.

Near the brook with his naked feet and feathers tucked in his hair, it was only then he found me. I was tangled in the brambles, clutching the hedges and spitting in the puddles. I felt him glance at me and then reach for the scattered goods glinting on the ground. I didnʼt say a word. He took his time but he eventually placed a grubby finger on my cheek. Over the empowering fug of burnt engine and rusting blood I could smell mud on his small frame. I imagine grass stains clinging to his knees. I felt the slither of a whistle he let out as he saw the box on the back seat. I could only hear echoes at that point, my chest was otherwise slowly concaving with the pressure of the carʼs frame.

With my beloved waiting for me at my destination Iʼd never reach, my breath escaped one last time as he dropped all that he was carrying and took my box.

Leave a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *


You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <strike> <strong>