Summer Boils in anticlimatic

I thought if I stared hard enough at this passing summer it would take longer to boil. I didn’t even blink and already the pot is off the stove completely. Like it was never there. Record heat, and I yet feel the chill of former winter. It wasn’t enough sun.

There is a chill in this house as well; a chill in the soul. I wonder if he thought he was doing us all favor by leaving. I wonder if I told him I didn’t want him to go, if it would have mattered. He was always so closed to input but for that he could make ready sense of, and then it was listening like a laser. Could he have made ready sense of how much more important he was than a burden if I could have formed the words?

Thankfully, I doubt it.