The typhoon has long since blown over, but the feelings still come in waves. I wish I could bottle up some and send it to him. I did write it all down, but he is the only one who does not read what I write. It is just as well. I can’t have all the attention I want when I want it. He has taught me that and he has done a much better job than my parents.
Perhaps it is only a matter of another country walk before what I have written is read. A matter of a late breakfast: the walk already half-begun, the hustle needed to catch up with the rest of them, the ink stains of my writing slowly curling up into a corner of his mind with every stride. Temporarily shelved. To be filtered later. Irksome.
Perhaps it is only a matter of a glass of cold milk after dinner. Drank alone, standing in the kitchen, facing the sink. Drank alone, in a chair on a rug, facing the window. The house quiet. Siblings, parents, dogs asleep. The paper crisp, the words deep. Who knows? But that is why I write and that is why I talk, because you never can tell.