Father thunder

by Kyra

Storm breeze’s been blowing along my shoulder blades for more than an hour. I sit backward to it, facing dog eared pages and chapters that neutralize time and a room that I don’t care much for. At five past midnight, the thunder finally breaks through the headphonic barriers and I swivel an inherited chair round to face the window and catch sense (or non-) of the fat, falling rain. If there were still a city for him, my father would be doing the same; and I’d still be thinking that I was so lucky to be part of the ritual.

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