He wanted to explain more as they ate the peach pie. As his fork dipped into the mashed potatoes and the minced meat, he wanted to say that bedroom was a prison and sanctuary, and how he had never felt nearer and farther from his father than when he was reading to him. How sometimes, when words and stories cause chuckles and smiles, the body in bed almost becomes a father to him, and other times, no matter how or what it reads, the body remains motionless. But, as usual, words did not help him.” “Miss Delmonte's glib gabbering terrified him, and the way she threw words to the wind knowing where they would land. She was definitely going to assume that everyone possessed this ability. She hummed her words and laughed midway through, then carried on as if nothing had happened. I deliberately put obstacles in her way so that she could jump over them.” “Miss, hearing voices this far, the words became cloudy and made them look like distant figures you deliberately evaluate, and the light was also different, as it seemed more diffuse and soft. The soft curves provided a haven from the well-intentioned chipped edges. Handshakes that are too firm, smiles that are too sincere, and pressure on the shoulder that is too painful or too light. And always that nonsense about time healing everything.
What if time made more room for memory?
