He was back in the fog, back at the rock, back with his friend Mark,
who was chipping at the rock with his knife.
Who was being a bit unfriendly. “You know you should go back, they
still need you.”
“I don’t have to hurry, I can be with you a while.”
“You are, always.”
“You don’t need to sound so happy about it.”
“I don’t want you here. I want you there. With them. Alive. Having
tomorrows.”
He gestured at the fog. “Not this.”
“Yeah, I prefer sunshine, myself. But you aren’t there. “
“I am. Always.”
“I never see you there.”
“Liar. You see me every time you look into my sons’ faces, or watch them
walk into or out of a room.”
He thought that over for a long moment. “No.”
“No?”
“I see parts of you in parts of them. But they aren’t you and you aren’t them.
I want you.”
“I’m telling you, I’m there. As there as I can be.”
“Then how come I never see you?”
“Because you look with your eyes closed.”
“That’s us’ly the best way to see things that don’t exist.”
“I exist. I’m here, am I not?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’m imagining you. Hallucinating.”
“If I’m a hallucination, what does that make you, here, with me?’
“If I go back –”
“When you go back.”
“Will I be a cripple? An invalid?”
“I don’t know. Does it matter?”
He shrugged. “When I’m here, it doesn’t,” he paused. “When I’m with you.”
