THE PLOT BEGINS TO THICKEN:

A chapter, if you will, a place to commence but never the beginning. He stokes the old fires lingering that afternoon behind the display case. Bold strokes of vision place wandering lights beneath his glasses. Cold stories stored for the future like forgotten cigarettes. He loses breath, each manner unfolding night blossoms to caress the echo of boyhood faith. Pocket knives and bubblegum adhere to tenets that dare to manipulate a growing sense of pleasure. Rhythms slide along teeth aching stubble to scar a frozen tongue trapped mosquitoes in amber. He tears out parchment, discarding hope and pens another purpose for his children stillborn and blue. Screams for a little time but petitions are lost along with tax forms.

‘I have need of you,’ she used to say. He believed every sigh hid the truth. She suffered for his oxygen.

Her garden hose held summer rain until the laughter died.

‘Dig deep, my love,’ she used to say. ‘I need a dozen cubits moved before the coffin is lost.’

Spade broken and feeble.

‘I’ll be here all night,’ he sobs. When dawns moisture matted the grass, the laughter had lost but the coffin remained. The hole was not enough, what with taxes and the hidden stones.

Wipe the brow, soil streaks cigar smoke.

‘I would not do this, if I loved you,’ he used to say. Dead laughter has taken liberties with her swollen throat. She never heard the children or the scars the tires left. Neighbours flee the sandlot where weeds dream of lesser nights.

For a few weeks, at the very least, the coffee halted ages pen. Long lines of memories grafted to his face. With all remorse and longing, trips up the stairs calling- ‘You are not what I meant. I am not the artist. I need you. Dig my ditch. Etch the stone. Sing the song. Light up my life.’

He left the attic empty, feeding on the dust. He spends the nights alone these days and sleeps beneath the cellar.

They never found the body but the laughter lingers on.