The Eyes Of A Boy

There must have been thousands standing in the rain that day. Like soldiers standing as sentries, I watched them from my window. I longed to rush out and spread a protective cape over the delicate poppies as the rain tore their fragile petals from their stems. It was an impossible task because I was weak, and there were too many. Besides, thunder and, more specifically, lightning frightened me.

The poppies had just started to bloom. Seeing them from my window was a small joy, and I felt a sense of protectiveness towards them as if they were somehow mine.

Years later, this memory anchors me to a beginning with no end.

“I hope the rain won’t pummel them all,” I said as the heat of my breath fogged the cool glass.

My voice was weak from not speaking for hours on end, other than…