April

Issue 43

Somewhere, Eric is sitting cross-legged on a small circular rug under a window.  He is playing with tiny animals of colored glass, and in his hands tigers fly and dogs speak riddles and crocodiles bounce on their tails.  He is full of noise and color, bright and sharp around the edges.  Sid can hardly bear to look at him.  

In this place, in this dream, Eric is the real creature, the child of flesh and blood, while Sid is the insubstantial one, the ghost.  Here, in this dream, it is Eric who lives and Sid who is dead.  

Behind Eric, outside of the blue-curtained window, stars whirl and spin in a black sky.    

“Eric,” says Sid.  He does not expect to be heard.  

Eric looks up, squints at the corners of the ceiling.  

“Dad?”