Not the whole house, just the bed- room where a dead boy still has not quite died. Humming from posters, trophies, within the seashells lining a window that has never overlooked an ocean. Not the entire river either, just its shore, that drowning half of the tide. It's not that we don’t miss the field, where the farmhands pray for rain to stop, then pray pray pray for it to rain again. But let's skip the storm part next time. The thirst, its prayers. After my father dragged me to Gettysburg when I was twelve & told me to look, really look I knew we’d never return. Not from that. Next time let’s dig a hole the size of a child & set a small fire inside & move two counties away & see if it is true what they say about wounds. Instead of just his room, let's leave the whole house to echo by itself.
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Readers’ Comments
- Laurel Wexman { I am re- reading this for the millionth time, through tears, once again. It is absolutely perfect! }
- Antonie Becker { Beautifully movingly written so, Thank God, the talent and ability is still somehow, miraculously, intact. }
- Jim Brennan { Garry, you mentioned this piece at the PVTU meeting - nicely written. It had me searching around, as things like this tend to do, for... }
- Dan Minnock { Hello All, Are you taking submissions for the June 2022 contest? }
- D. Oakleaf { Dear James, Thank you for sharing this outstanding essay. My father also built a "Z-Box" and I've recently taken up learning its backstory, even if... }
- F. J. Bergmann { We're near the end of 2021. When will the 2020 Fiction Contest results be announced? }
- Dawn Holmes { Blimey - what a read........we just celebrated a UK and anyone else who could make it - Cusichaca reunion at our home in Scotland -... }
- Literal Latte { Thanks, Richard, that is much appreciated! You stay safe, too! }
- Literal Latte { Hi James and Michelle (and other writers who have inquired) -- We're truly sorry about the delay. It looks like results for the fiction contest... }