Three Months at Home

Flash Fiction

It was the first snow the town had seen in decades, and he wasn’t alive to see it. He should have laughed and said it was ironic that the last thing we needed brought us all so much joy. Of course, when the snow froze and hardened, and there were no more snowmen to build, and the roads were still too dangerous to drive down, I missed him more.

He never lived here. He studied here, and stayed in my house, but that was different. He never unpacked his backpack entirely, but brought things out of it one by one to show me. Even the day before he left, there were new things to show, so it felt bottomless. I guess that’s how it is with memory. The time we had was finite, just three months at home, but I see more of him every day now he’s gone.

I think I fell in love with him, at least for the last few days. He had a new way of making pancakes.

He only stayed that long because he got lost, and found no reason to find his way again until it found him. Roads always brough him back; he picked a direction and kept taking rights. I followed him once, from afar.

But he saw me, rather, heard me, and turned back, finding that his way had always been with me.

How marvelous that would have been, if I hadn’t been dreaming.

He didn’t hear me, or must have ignored me if he did, because I never saw him again. Half-way to the train station I lost hope, and hoped I would get lost like he did. Oh, why do I have that desperate need to be desired? Out in the that, in with the spring, seasons one after another. Lost boys come and go, but nothing changes just with dreams.