On a Monday morning like almost any
other, three large windows opened in the sky – one for the child,
one for the loss, and one for the memory. The child cried, as an
orphan cries. The loss loomed low and heavy. The memory was bitter
like soil.
The windows had no panes, but were free
and open to the zephyrs of whimsy, yet no whimsy dared show itself,
and the apertures remained clear and even inviting. The windows
winked; they stared; they grew dry. The widow of the memory
fluttered a little bit, showing its weakness and nearly speaking to
the window of the child, for it was only in the memory that the
orphan-like cries made sense. But the three windows in the sky
remained, holding themselves at attention – looking as thought they
needed to squat and relieve themselves. That is how windows look
when they are full of filth.
Little Mikey Nitrous saw the windows
and feared the worst. He had always been a happy young boy, but the
windows scared the living colon-filth out of him and he decided to
duck into a nearby delicatessen and clean himself up. As he was
wiping his hands on the shirttail of a homeless watchmaker, he spied
a full-page ad on the cover of the “Weekly Shopper”, and it
caused him to pause, reflect, and then continue wiping.
“Ain't never gonna' be the same
again,” said little Mikey Nitrous, “it ain't ever gonna' be the
way it was, before the drought. Before I grew up. Before I became a
man.”
Michael Nitrous walked away. The
windows in the sky stayed open.
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