·
It’s as if a fine veil has fallen over his eyes, separating him from the scene in front of him, leaving him aware of his isolation, aware that this little scene is only something he can look upon. He cannot walk into that kitchen and take his place at the table.
·
‘ESO 378 Nebula,’ he says. ‘ESO, that means it was taken by the European Southern Observatory. The number, well, that’s for identification. And nebula, that’s the classification. It tells you what it is.’
·
‘Yeah, well… boys will be boys,’ he says. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Just that you shouldn’t read anything into it.’
·
At seven forty-five the car will bleep with a flash of orange lights, followed by the front door opening. Two girls, young still, will stumble out onto the driveway, while behind, their mother, laden with school bags and harried – though not dishevelled, she is never dishevelled – will fumble with the keys and shout,…
·
They cling to the branches a little longer this year, and it takes a second storm to scatter them. One rainy morning she rakes them into a pile, and the loamy smell sparks a memory. Abby’s voice caught in the drizzle. “I never know if this is the beginning or the end.”
