Sand slips through the narrowing glass and spills out, scattering down a mound of brethren. So the Game goes.
And who is ahead? One gray and surly, one orange and content; they stare through the screen at every shift in the ait and listen for birds, on high alert together.
I am listening to Susan and placing the next petal, eyeing the cherry tree buds still aways from bursting. I learned the lessons at this table, in ink and legal pads and rereading words.
But the boys don’t remember that far back. They are intent on the scents and a fluttering bug, not rent and resumes and all that could be written and all that may be.
Soon we’ll walk to the sand and grind it under our feet and press away the ocean within and carry the fragments home in the fabric of our cuffs and socks and the sand will sift out onto the floor at home, redistributed and renewed.