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And they don’t change.

We are mice, he says. They give my mother so little she barely covers heating, let alone food; we use gas, he clarifies.

A group of us ran, he continues; I lost my brother.

Father hanged from the kitchen beam.

I was small.

I am going to get even, he says.

I am going to go back.

Faith is blind. As sightless as a drive through snow falling so thick it has overtaken every inch of the windshield.

Turning to your right you see the person there at that time.

Then, on a day when weather could be late-fall clement or clear as pink sunsets an unexpected other sits by your side or walks into a room and you are together.

- for Peter