{"id":8507,"date":"2011-01-21T11:21:38","date_gmt":"2011-01-21T17:21:38","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.musefanpage.com\/blog\/?p=8507"},"modified":"2011-01-23T13:30:43","modified_gmt":"2011-01-23T19:30:43","slug":"a-story-from-sbf","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/musefanpage.com\/blog\/?p=8507","title":{"rendered":"A Story from SBF"},"content":{"rendered":"

small but fierce sent us this story of hers to read or post. Naturally, we’re posting it.<\/em><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\nReach<\/strong>\n<\/div>\n

The boy perched on the brick steps, his small frame hunched intently over a ream of
\npapers. A fair lock fell over his eyelids; his lips tensing, he blew the flaxen
\nstrands to the side. <\/p>\n

The burnt red surface grew warm on his thighs-he stood up and smoothed down his
\ntrousers. He pulled a pencil from his pocket, leaving a graphite trail across the
\nvast beige plain, and began to write. <\/p>\n

Thomas Hatfield, nine. <\/i> He glanced up briefly, and after a beat roughly
\nscratched out what he had written. Adjusting the glasses perched on the bridge of
\nhis nose, he started anew. <\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Thomas Hatfield <\/p>\n

Nine years old <\/p>\n

London <\/p>\n

Thoughts on Death <\/p>\n

I don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t understand why everyone worries about death so much. They have this terrible
\nrelationship with it, like it\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s unnatural. Really it\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s the most regular of things,
\nbut it gets made into some terrifying event. Like recently, when William, Dad and I
\nwent to the graveyard, they said it wasn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t Mom\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s time to go. I figure, if she goes
\nthen it\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s her time. I mean <\/i> <\/p>\n

A shadow fell across his page: he looked up. <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Hi, Matt,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d he said, his eyes flickering back to his paper, and waited for the
\nresponse he knew would come. <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Matthias is nicer.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d The boy towered over Thomas awkwardly, an oblong silhouette
\nagainst the bright June sky. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153What are you writing?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153My thoughts on death. It seems a double standard that-\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Do you want to go somewhere? It\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s nice out.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

Thomas rested his head on his palms. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153You know, \u00e2\u20ac\u02dcnice\u00e2\u20ac\u2122 is a subjective term. I was
\nthinking, it\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s truly in the eye of the beholder, but we as a species naturally
\nconcur on what is appealing, because-\u00e2\u20ac\u0153 <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Whatever. How \u00e2\u20ac\u02dcbout we go get some-\u00e2\u20ac\u0153 <\/p>\n

Thomas continued with his thought, pushing his wire frames up on his nose. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Like,
\nimagine if we were-if we were,\u00e2\u20ac\u0153 he fumbled for a concept accessible to Matthias,
\n\u00e2\u20ac\u0153all someone\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s dream. They wouldn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t-\u00e2\u20ac\u0153 <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153That\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s the most irrelevant thing I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ve ever heard.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I didn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t finish my sentence.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

Matthias looked away, his eyes glazed over, not listening. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153What if we are
\nsomebody\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s dream? That\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s why we\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re all the same, I bet. Somebody with no
\nimagination.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Perhaps, but that wasn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t really what I was trying to get across.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d He waited for
\nacknowledgement. <\/p>\n

Matthias shifted his weight to his right foot, dragging his wrist across his nose.
\n\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Come on. Let\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s go play badminton over near my house. The court\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s really flat and it
\nabsorbs heat.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

Thomas stared at the translucent curve cutting across Matthias\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s pallid flesh, and
\ntilted his neck to one side in resignation. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ll put away my papers.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

This was a regular exchange between the two boys. <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u00a6 <\/p>\n

Thomas quietly opened the door, the prolonged creak seeming to echo in his ears. He
\nslipped through the gap, making sure to carefully pull the door shut to minimize the
\ntraces. The wooden floorboards yawning under his weight, he crept toward his bedroom
\nto deposit his sheaf of papers. <\/p>\n

As he laboriously shifted his weight forward and back, he breathed in the strong
\nmusky scent which hung heavy about the house. Mom, he thought, and shook his head
\nslightly as if to rid his mind of the forbidden idea. <\/p>\n

He was resigned to it, though; everything reminded him of Mom these days, and they
\nwere all filled with memories: the chipped red paint on the kitchen table (she had
\npainted it and repainted it, struggling for perfection even when her rib cage
\nhollowed out), the bowl which used to hold her incense (it kept her sane, she said
\nnear the end), the sense of emptiness, abandonment even, that seemed to be carried
\non the drafts (even when the fireplace worked). He stared at the sun-faded curtains,
\nremembering how she had lusted after them for months and months-her staring
\nwistfully at the magazine which held them, her skeletal fingers tracing their glossy
\ncurves. <\/p>\n

Do you remember your plan? <\/i> He had saved up his pocket money for one year
\nand four months-he remembered exactly-and then presented the money to her. To his
\nsurprise, she started crying: \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Thomas.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d She kissed him through her tears. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153I can\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t
\npossibly accept this.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

He had meant to make her face radiate light, not crease in sorrow. <\/p>\n

He heard a heavy footfall: he was caught. <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Hey.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

Wearily, he replied, \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Hello, Dad.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Son. Where are you going?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153To play badminton with Matthias. It\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s a daily occurrence. I thought you\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d
\nremember.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d He felt oddly disappointed. I don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t particularly mind telling him,
\nthough; why do I feel so betrayed? <\/i> <\/p>\n

Perhaps his father sensed Thomas\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s mood, for he moistened his lips. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153I know it\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s
\nhard, Thomas. It\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s hard for all of us. She was our anchor, and-\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

His searching gaze made Thomas avert his eyes. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Your metaphors are overused.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d He
\ndidn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t mean to say it harshly, but there was a sharp edge to his voice. <\/p>\n

His father shifted his gaze, his deep cobalt eyes tinged with hurt. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Go play
\nbadminton with Matthias. Afterwards, pick up some crayons for William at the toy
\nshop.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ve never been there.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153It\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s down the road from the courts.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153How do you know?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153 I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ve been there.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

Thomas bit his hand, hard. His father, he thought with distaste, brought out the
\nmost human emotions in him. <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u00a6 <\/p>\n

The creak of the old wooden door mingled with the tinkling chime of the bell as
\nThomas entered. <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Why, hello. What may I get for you today, young man?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

Thomas stared at the saleswoman positioned by the door with detachment: he noticed
\nthe upturned mouth-he could tell her smile was genuine by the crinkles of her
\neyes-but how did he know? I have practice. Dad smiles, but his eyes never
\nsquinch up at the edges. <\/i> He noticed the once-crisp blouse stained brown down
\nthe front with clinging flecks of dishtowel string. He noticed the small mole
\nmarking her cheekbone. He noticed the orange rings around her iris. <\/p>\n

As he surveyed her translucent teeth with their hint of lipstick, he felt a strange
\nsudden twinge-of what? He had never viewed anyone\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s mere appearance with anything
\nother than impartiality. He couldn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t place the feeling. Feeling vaguely
\ndisconcerted, he broke out of his reverie with a faint, \u00e2\u20ac\u0153My brother wants a set of
\ncrayons.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Very fun,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d enthused the saleswoman. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Follow me.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d She turned, her pleated skirt
\nrippling behind her, and clicked her way across the worn wooden floor. <\/p>\n

As he followed behind, he observed the crooked wooden shelves held more than the
\nconventional array of toys; there were mysterious trinkets galore, which gave off
\nthe aura of originating from some exotic locale. He was not filled with a sense of
\nwonder, but it was admirable all the same that they could make their journey all the
\nway here for the sole purpose, it seemed, of making themselves known to him. If
\nI hadn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t seen them I wouldn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t know they existed, <\/i> he thought. <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Do you want anything for yourself? Those trinkets you\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re looking at are very nice.
\nVery exotic.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d The saleswoman snapped him out of his thoughts. <\/p>\n

Red-faced and confused as to why, Thomas murmured, \u00e2\u20ac\u0153No, thank you. I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m nine,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d as if
\nthat would somehow justify his embarrassment. He immediately reflected on how
\ntypically childish those words sounded, and averted his eyes from the saleswoman\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s
\neager gaze. <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Oh, no! The crayons seem to be sold out!\u00e2\u20ac\u009d the saleswoman said, her upturned lips
\nbetraying her statement. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ll check in the back.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Thank you,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d Thomas replied to her retreating form. <\/p>\n

As the saleswoman disappeared into the back room, a glint of light struck his eye:
\nhe glanced over at the source. <\/p>\n

A small porcelain figure: a perfect curve. An elephant. <\/p>\n

He stared at the slope of its trunk-it seemed to be reaching out for something, but,
\nperched on the dented shelf, it seemed to be gazing out into the divide. What is
\nit reaching for? <\/i> he wondered, staring at the flaking plaster on the low ceiling.
\n<\/i> Me? Matt? Father? The world? <\/i> He didn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t understand. <\/p>\n

Suddenly, he felt a stirring-a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. An omen?
\nhe thought, and then rebuked himself for being so irrational. Some subconscious
\nimpulse propelled him to the shelf-he was dimly aware of his fingers closing around
\nthe ceramic. He placed it in his pocket and walked out of the store, finding a
\npacket of crayons and a book called Teddy tucked behind the rack of children\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s books
\nin the corner. <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u00a6 <\/p>\n

The sun glared into Thomas\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s eyes: he squinted, wrinkling his nose, and quickly
\nstrode to the other side of the cobblestone road. Once in the dappled shade, he
\nrelaxed and his pace slowed. <\/p>\n

He ambled along the street, pausing to tuck his hair over his delicate shell ear.
\n What is going on? <\/i> He racked his brain for a diagnosis, but came up with
\nnothing. This sensation is strange. <\/i> <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u00a6 <\/p>\n

Thomas shifted on the hot brick -not in discomfort, just for a change in position.
\nHe placed his right hand against his brow, shielding his eyes from the sun, and
\npicked up his pencil from the burnt red surface. <\/p>\n

The familiar shadow fell across his vision-feeling vaguely irritable, he kept his
\ngaze on his paper. <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Hi, Matt.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I told you, Matthias is nicer. What\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s that you have in your hand?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

He knows what I have in my hand , <\/i> he thought, but said nothing. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Notes.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153About what?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Death.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153You always write about death. What the hell do you write about that for?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I was just thinking how it gets all blown out of proportion. People die every day,
\nevery second- – it\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s really so ordinary, but when it happens to someone close to us
\nwe get frantic. If we don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t care about people we don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t know dying, then why is it so
\nbad when it happens to someone else?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Well, then they\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re gone.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d Matthias dug the toe of his scuffed boot into the ground.
\n\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Let\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s go play badminton. It\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s nice weather out.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

Thomas pressed on. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153I was reading that book called Teddy, and the boy was talking
\nabout the orange peels. He was thinking if he didn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t see them he couldn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t tell they
\nexisted, and when they disappear from his vision it will be only in his mind that
\nthey ever did in that sense. See, they really only existed in his mind, kind of, and
\nif you think about it everything only exists in people\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s minds. Feelings, anything.
\nYou know, my ele-\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153So I don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t exist.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

You exist, just not physically. To someone in Africa, it\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s as if you don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t exist. To
\nyou, it\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s as if my ele-\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153So I don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t exist,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d Matt repeated, and plunked down on the steps next to Thomas. <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153No. See, Teddy said that after he leaves this world-that means when he dies-he\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ll
\nonly exist in the minds of the people he\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s influenced. To someone you haven\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t, you
\ndon\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t. Really, any of us are just orange peels, when you think about it from an
\nimpartial viewpoint.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153So we\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re just narcissists?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Well\u00e2\u20ac\u00a6\u00e2\u20ac\u009d Thomas paused, feeling vaguely irritated. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Perhaps we are; we may be too
\nattached to our race to really accept the orange peel theory. You know, the
\nBuddhists-\u00e2\u20ac\u0153 <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153So now I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m an orange peel. You said I don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t exist, and now I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m an orange peel.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

Thomas stared at his companion in raw dismay. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153No. Teddy meant that-\u00e2\u20ac\u0153 <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t give a damn what Teddy meant. You used to be fun, and-\u00e2\u20ac\u0153 <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I wasn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t fun,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d Thomas murmured. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153I was just silent.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Shut up,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d Matthias said uncertainly, and his eyes widened in realization of his
\nstatement. He went on bravely, \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Whenever I try to play with you, you go spouting
\nsome existential rubbish-\u00e2\u20ac\u02dcwe\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re all a dream!\u00e2\u20ac\u2122-and get all solemn.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Why are you so upset with me? I thought we were friends.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d He rubbed the elephant in
\nhis pocket, his finger outlining the ear. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153B-best friends. I thought you would-\u00e2\u20ac\u0153 <\/p>\n

Matthias pushed off the brick steps. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153I don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t have to be friends with you. You\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re
\nonly nine. And don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t say it\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s not a big difference. I have plenty of-\u00e2\u20ac\u0153 he
\nhesitated-\u00e2\u20ac\u0153of other friends who are perfectly normal.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

Thomas expelled the words quickly, before he had a chance to think. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153When you say
\nnormal, do you mean like you? Because I think-\u00e2\u20ac\u0153 <\/p>\n

Matt whirled around, his fists clenched, his pale azure eyes welling up with tears.
\n\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I mean not like you! Do you know what everyone says about you?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d he asked, his voice
\ntrembling. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153They-they say you\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re a bloody maniac! They think you\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re crazy!\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Oh,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d Thomas said softly, and his gaze flicked downward. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Why?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153You-you analyze <\/i> everything!\u00e2\u20ac\u009d With that final syllable borne into the space
\nbetween the two boys, Matthias turned and ran down the cobblestone road, crying
\noutright. <\/p>\n

Thomas, blinking rapidly, picked up his blunt pencil and resumed writing. <\/p>\n

I mean, Dad thinks I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m unemotional for not crying about Mom , <\/strike>
\nbut I just see things clearly. I feel no vitriol for the people whose death I
\naccept. <\/p>\n

I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m realistic. <\/i> <\/p>\n

He paused, picking up his pencil, and flicked his hair out of his face. <\/p>\n

Then he scrawled three words on his paper: I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m not crazy <\/i> <\/p>\n

He was quite like Teddy, he decided. <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u00a6 <\/p>\n

Thomas flung open the door-it ricocheted against the wall, forming a slight dent. He
\nran straight to his room, not bothering to close the door, and flung himself on his
\nbed, papers crumpling and gradually sinking into the mattress. <\/p>\n

Now completely horizontal, he slipped a hand into his pocket and traced the perfect
\nslope of the elephant\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s smooth trunk: a perfect worry stone. How funny, <\/i> he
\nthought, that it assuages the worry caused by itself. He laughed through his tears,
\nsniffling noisily. A thought came upon him: it wouldn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t be funny to anyone else.
\n<\/i> That started another torrent of tears, and he curled in upon himself, sobbing
\ninto his pillow. <\/p>\n

He couldn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t stop. <\/p>\n

This has to be a dream, <\/i> he thought. It has to. Otherwise I might as
\nwell die. <\/i> He bit the down, gnashing his teeth and sobbing. He found himself
\nmoaning, his tear-streaked face contorted with pain: \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Why did you do it? Why?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d He
\nvaguely realized he had no control. Still he kept crying: \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Why? Why?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

He couldn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t stop. <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u00a6 <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Thomas. Tom. It\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s O.K.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d He awoke to the soothing tone of his father\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s voice. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153It\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s
\ngoing to be O.K.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

Thomas sniffled. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153The world isn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t O.K. You\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re lying to me.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

His father smiled ruefully. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153There are problems, but we just need to work them out.
\nI know you\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re mature enough to-\u00e2\u20ac\u0153 <\/p>\n

Thomas snapped. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153How do you know I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m mature enough? I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m nine! Don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t make
\nassumptions.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m sorry.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153That\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s all?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153What?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Say something.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153What should I say?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

Thomas was filled with a sudden urgency, terror even. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Anything! Just
\nsay-something!\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

His father grew calm, the way one does when one has cried for a long time. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153I-\u00e2\u20ac\u0153 he
\nexhaled-\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t have anything to say.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

The look of helplessness on his father\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s face was as grotesquely obvious. It
\nreminded Thomas of the funny clowns and carnival masks he and his mother saw when
\nthey went to the fair-he didn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t particularly enjoy it, but his mother had a golden
\nglow. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153You have to! You\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re my father!\u00e2\u20ac\u0153 <\/p>\n

He took the perfect elephant, the beauty, the scourge, and threw it on the ground. A
\nstrangled, choked cry arose from his throat: \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Mother-\u00e2\u20ac\u0153 <\/p>\n

Tears fell, and the shards collected on the ground. <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u00a6 <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153We all miss her, Thomas. We all miss her. I loved her. I love her. I love you. I
\nlove you\u00e2\u20ac\u00a6\u00e2\u20ac\u009d Thomas was vaguely aware of his father\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s soft murmurings as he arose from
\nhis dreamlike state-was it a dream? <\/p>\n

He was jolted alert. A dream. <\/i> <\/p>\n

Opening his eyes, he felt the soothing circles of his father\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s fingers on his temple
\ntremble and cease. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Keep doing that.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Why should I?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Because it feels nice.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d Thomas leaned into his father(his!)\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s shoulder, and sank
\ninto him. <\/p>\n

Father kissed him, softly, on the forehead. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153O.K.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/p>\n

Was it a dream? Thomas felt the answer. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

small but fierce sent us this story of hers to read or post. Naturally, we’re posting it.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-8507","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-original-fiction-and-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/musefanpage.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8507","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/musefanpage.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/musefanpage.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/musefanpage.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/musefanpage.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=8507"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/musefanpage.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8507\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":8528,"href":"https:\/\/musefanpage.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8507\/revisions\/8528"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/musefanpage.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=8507"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/musefanpage.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=8507"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/musefanpage.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=8507"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}