It's new for me to write as the story plays out, in some ways it becomes the rough draft that no one usually sees, while the pieces come together (and fall apart) through each connected word. I will consider this a personal course in courage, as I continue to share with you the story that is writing itself.
"Blake, your soup is getting cold!" his aunt hollered from the other room. "Come and eat."
Even though he heard her, it took a few moments before he could pull himself away from the window. Blake spent a lot of time in his own head. The canyon of separation from the world around him and that place that he finds comfort inside, kept him safe.
"Blake, come and eat!" She half-shouted, head cornering the door jamb into the sitting room with wild strands.
Blake was only six when his mother left, but he remembers her face of soft, ivory skin, with a natural pale blush on her full lips and high cheeks. Her hands were small, but he memorized the way they felt against his face, like sun-warmed silk, after the story, before sleep. "Dream, little angel" she would whisper as she flipped off the light.
"Can I go outside after lunch Aunt Torie?" feet shuffled across the floor as if they were bags of rocks, his head lowered denying her eye contact.
"It's raining. You know you can't go out in the rain." she tousled his thick hair under her fingers. She wished she could reach him. It had already been two years, she wondered how long it would take to see the vivacious child she used to watch. He was a different person then. Summer caught him and kept him until the sun went down, day after day. Laughter spilled over the fence into the neighbors yard, bringing other curious sun-catchers into his world. So much laughter, hidden somewhere inside his mind.