sons could be birds,
taken broken up to the mountain
taken broken up to the mountain
For some reason, Nate is both relieved and a little disappointed when the girl retreats, the tangle of yarn between her hands. Between them. He leans back until he can rest the heels of his hands on the stone wall, and half sits, half stands, watching her work. This is maybe the closest he's come in a year to being a real person, having a real conversation. Being outside of his own head. It's… nice. Really very nice, if he is honest with himself.
(he rarely is)
"I don't know," Nate answers her question. "I didn't like them very much." It is easy to say this bit, and harder to say the other half of it — that he had also loved them, in the weird stoic way he came to love things which demanded his time and attention. They were foul, noisy, busy little creatures and now they were gone and his yard was silent save for the specter of the dog, the old dog, who would one day disappear as well. Into the forest, or into the dirt, or into thin air — it would happen.
He ruminates for a moment, thinking on it. The sound of her work soothes him in an old, familiar way. He never enjoyed his childhood house, but the sound is a sound of his childhood, a sound of quiet and of peace, even if Melita's needles move without rhythm and the sweater is sure to be something else, entirely.
When he speaks again, it's a different topic altogether, though in Nate's brain the question belongs here. "What did you ask for?"
(he rarely is)
"I don't know," Nate answers her question. "I didn't like them very much." It is easy to say this bit, and harder to say the other half of it — that he had also loved them, in the weird stoic way he came to love things which demanded his time and attention. They were foul, noisy, busy little creatures and now they were gone and his yard was silent save for the specter of the dog, the old dog, who would one day disappear as well. Into the forest, or into the dirt, or into thin air — it would happen.
He ruminates for a moment, thinking on it. The sound of her work soothes him in an old, familiar way. He never enjoyed his childhood house, but the sound is a sound of his childhood, a sound of quiet and of peace, even if Melita's needles move without rhythm and the sweater is sure to be something else, entirely.
When he speaks again, it's a different topic altogether, though in Nate's brain the question belongs here. "What did you ask for?"
