A Raging Digression

bar66

Regret

He hates me.

His dawn rose already broken.

The watch and the clock and his coat and the cold.

He rages.

He is misunderstood, he is mocked, he is abused, he is unloved, he is nine.

He manfully defies tears, shrieking at the dog instead. The dog prances, the boy said it’s name. He quietly apologizes to the dog while I am in the kitchen and shrieks at the pencil case instead. I laugh from the pantry.

God how he hates me.

He tells me so.

He won’t look at me on the bus.

He hisses under his breath that I am not to speak to him ever again, sounding just like Sirius Black. It’s uncanny. He tells me I will never hear his voice again. He tells me he means it. Three times.

He walks in active silence.

He sits on his bench in a martyred slouch. Anyone would notice and understand.

The gates swing open. The small, short crowd passes in.

Not him. He sits.

He hates me.

I stand at the base of the long stairs…he knows I won’t leave until he is within the gates and to force him to go I must climb the long stone stairs. Impasse.

He gloats in his victory like a small Alexander on a park bench.

He sits and savors. We both wait.

He waits more.

I start to climb.

He stands and stares at me and comes down the long stairs to meet me. A sudden hug and he says he is sorry and I shouldn’t climb and I shouldn’t die. Not till he is married.

I tell him I will try…and that I was wrong to laugh.

Again he doesn’t cry. Fortitude.

I touch his cheek and go into one dance of many. “I have seen the white city, long ago…”

He nods seriously. “One day our paths will lead us there, and the tower guards will call…The Lords of Gondor have returned.” He smiles self consciously, then he is gone.

He climbs back up the long stone stairs and wanders through the great green gate alone. He doesn’t look back.

Regret is a demanding companion when you are nine.

Advertisements

1 Comment

  1. He has a protector’s heart. And mayhap, some of your poet’s soul. Which is both good and bad, to be honest.

    He’ll be a terror at fifteen.


Comments RSS TrackBack Identifier URI

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s