A note neatly folded on the edge of my bed.
Instinctively, I know its not good news.
The boy that taught me to read, writes me. He writes of pain, of fear and then of his lack of need. His handwriting not able to hide the lie. It juts and leans heavier on 'by myself.' I can hear him reading this, feeling this.
Heat starts in my chest, up my throat, burns the back of my head.
Outside I find him, there is a slight breeze, the tinted sun is setting behind the pines and he stares at the ground, watching something navigate its way home. I stare at him, willing the same.
Just as plants and insects have different abilities to survive I believe there are certain souls that are more sensitive to seasons, winds and storms. They bruise easily, saturate quickly and get bogged down when caught in difficult weather. They are no less strong than others, they are simply made from a different fiber; lighter, less repellant.
I want to guard him, cover him and dare I say save him but he doesn't need any of those things. He needs a different kind of weather.