The Sunday Whirl


Joey moved to the window since sleep was not coming, again. He was much older than his years and the void of his missing mother seemed too strong at night. In the day he could laugh and pretend with his dad, watch him try to fill it, teaching him his mother’s way of doing things, even cooking, and the sorrow was remote for a while.

Standing by the sill, his fingertips unconsciously tracing patterns and lines in the condensation, he remembered each special moment he had with her. He brushed the lines away, and the tears started over again.

He pleaded with the moon and that single bright star to bring her back, to ease his pain. Then as if on cue, his dad came in behind him and held him tightly. “I miss her terribly too, Joey.”


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