In The Interest Of Time

Day 9
The Woman

We meander through the park, watching the birds. I take his hand and squeeze it, but it shakes, anyway. My father staggers, catches himself, and suddenly begins to weep in silent sobs. His clothes still smell like smoke.

The Man

The sirens have long faded from my ears, but my eyes water, burning from smoke, or from something else. Through the tears, I see my wife. She knows, but sits, knitting. Patient. I feel my knees buckle.

The Crone

I’m not there.


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