07 February 2013

Into the Wind

Someone has left the door open. He doesn't want to go out there; it's raining. They're telling him to turn his umbrella into the wind.

His mother won't look at him. Her back is turned; she refuses to speak. But who are all these others? They're telling him it's time to go. They're telling him to turn his umbrella into the wind.

Pain, peach-pit sized, rests in his diaphram. Vines of it grow up through his chest, wrapping around his heart. He won't open his mouth for fear the vines will grow out of it and choke him.

He looks up at the stone angel that leans over him, peering, laughing, curious. He can feel the fingers of cement holding him in. He cannot sit up. He cannot breathe. He cannot stop staring up and up and up into eternity.

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