Fiction

Hana leans into the second verse, singing about the loneliness of a songless bird. The music in my life is missing.

Our names were announced over the booming horde hailing the local girl making history. The bell tolled.

I am drawn to the train tracks and find the memory haunting. Because that’s how you died, my little brother.

I lay down on the couch ushered by my anguish. The clock ticks, backwards. I’m four again.

The late November grey hung in curtains all around them. And of course, greyest of all, on Leonard’s mood.

I shouldn’t say “should”, if I want to be happy. But who can be content while they are wasting borrowed time?

If you had had just a little more time, I might have pulled up my sleeve to show you the bruises.

He’s tired of feeling like a criminal. He’s tired of being in a country that needed him, needed his people, but didn’t want their kind.

The boat stares back with many eyes. Some closed in prayer, others close to fainting. A few people imagine childhood homes or hold photos of a small Italian port. Some cry. Some are confused.