It was a gesture of love but I couldn’t match her blitheness. It was all wrong. It went wrong. She’d called during my writing time. I am rigid, overly so, but I hold it so tight this work. It must be so. How could she have known that? And I couldn’t say it. Not then. It unravelled the day.
And then the little boy drowned. Poor little love, to die like that and all alone. His grandfather must be turning it over and over in his head. Rest in peace little one.
