By Cedric Anthony
Babble at me, behind our old home at the little brook running through the trees down to the pond.
Babble at me, in your way, admonitions and platitudes, warm fog in the winter morning. The words never penetrate; they just tingle on my skin till I forget the feeling.
Silence.
You mix in explanations, trickling at first, pooling into the imaginary reservoir between us.
Why you did it.
Dad wasn’t enough.
You had been so young before me.
Babble at me, because you must be speaking a different language.
Babble at me, so I can hear how it isn’t my fault.
I loved the way you used the ‘babble’ in this piece. Very poignant.
Excellent use of words to trap our feelings, suspended in our souls. Good story, Cedric.