I know that I am supposed to move toward the light but my boy was always the light of my life and I guess that, even now, he’s the only light I can move toward.
He’s been sad since it happened. That’s only natural, I suppose.
He and his father were never good at conversation, I was always in the middle, like a translator or something. They have their pain in common, but, now that I’m not there,there’s no one to help them speak the same language.
My boy has taken to going out after his father falls asleep. He’s not getting up to any trouble, he’s just walking. He still wears those earphones all the time, the white strings hanging down the front of his sweatshirt into the phone in his pocket. His hair flops down in his eyes, and my fingers ache to smooth it back out of his way.
He trudges along sidewalks and paths in our little town, I guess he’s wearing himself out so he, too, can sleep.
His loneliness pulls me along with his every step.
I wish I could tell him that he doesn’t walk alone.