The Red
"Do you have work today?"
"Yea."
We coast along at 40 in a 25 jogging the daily milk run, by way of Forest. Work right after school. The day will end for me whenever work ends, some time around 9:30. "So I won't be able to take you back home."
Of course, when 2:31 rolls around, the difference between work at 4 and work right after school becomes clear. How could I condemn someone to the School Bus? The threat is real.
Flashes of darkness. The lights that flash and emerge from them, often across the twilight, too often across the snow. February mornings waiting for the bus remain the most vivid - beyond the end of the old year, beneath the hope of the holidays; cold, in the season of death, where the world waits to be born, to be reborn... My season.
And so, I can't let that happen to flesh and blood.
Across the September asphalt- Icarus, wide and white, rounds a bend, and in a last minute attempt, follows the School Bus to its stop. Late, just like it always was. A living memory removed. Students begin boarding, and my sister is moments from getting on.
An arm extends, two taps, a gesture. The thumb points home.
'Round the bus, past the past, and on to the future.
Darkness settles across the eastern seaboard, the temperature cools. At a stoplight, somewhere, for one second, staring out the window, September's threat is breathed in, and perceived in peace for one moment, before being stolen again by the bass and the horses. Again, into the night, to await the day.
<
"Yea."
We coast along at 40 in a 25 jogging the daily milk run, by way of Forest. Work right after school. The day will end for me whenever work ends, some time around 9:30. "So I won't be able to take you back home."
Of course, when 2:31 rolls around, the difference between work at 4 and work right after school becomes clear. How could I condemn someone to the School Bus? The threat is real.
Flashes of darkness. The lights that flash and emerge from them, often across the twilight, too often across the snow. February mornings waiting for the bus remain the most vivid - beyond the end of the old year, beneath the hope of the holidays; cold, in the season of death, where the world waits to be born, to be reborn... My season.
And so, I can't let that happen to flesh and blood.
Across the September asphalt- Icarus, wide and white, rounds a bend, and in a last minute attempt, follows the School Bus to its stop. Late, just like it always was. A living memory removed. Students begin boarding, and my sister is moments from getting on.
An arm extends, two taps, a gesture. The thumb points home.
'Round the bus, past the past, and on to the future.
Darkness settles across the eastern seaboard, the temperature cools. At a stoplight, somewhere, for one second, staring out the window, September's threat is breathed in, and perceived in peace for one moment, before being stolen again by the bass and the horses. Again, into the night, to await the day.
<
Session Completed By:Chack at 9:30 PM
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