... trudging through the last traces of gray snow on the ground, we laugh at our child-like gestures, pretending with sure grace that we could see into the darkness of an evening that arrived too soon.  I could feel that she shared the hunger that could not wait another second. It had been a busy day that occupied our meager lives, quietly putting up with whatever they gave us to do at work.  And the time spent in school had become like some sort of a game, waiting from one recess to the next, and filling this little space with thin blue smoke and cheerful laughs.  And the quick incident at the crossing just as we alighted from the bus, that poor man!  Finally we are at the door, and I draw out the set of keys that I cleverly made copies of.  I was not at all supposed to have any.  
 
It was unusual to find anybody home at that hour, but I was relieved that both my parents were.  The question of a meal hung in the air, and with nothing at all in my pockets; I was beginning to think that artistes have nothing else in their free time to do except starve.  And dream of wondrous, fanciful things once in a while.  We settled on a short cartoon as my mother finished adding the last garnishing for this evening’s supper.  It was a delicious mix of fresh vegetables and beef, sautéed in a rich, thick sauce, with creamy egg noodles and a bowl of clear soup to start.  My hunger was a beast that shook free of its leash.  I could feel its rumbling protest beat angrily in my heart.
 
She eats like a small bird, unbelievably sated with just the soup.  I expect anytime after this short interlude, her request for another spot of cigarettes.  The frequency of which unhinges me; her sense of hidden urgency and temporary satiation.  And so in an attempt to delay I color the meal with conversation, taking neat bites in between tales and questions of another life that I used to believe was mine.  The aperitif was embarrassingly tepid, and for a moment it was a wish that I had the power to dream up a graceful decanter of sweet honey-ambered tea to grace the otherwise wonderful meal.  Surely enough, in a moment we are finished.  Anything done with good spirits is a godsend when you are done with; and supper’s not the same if you don’t partake of it with close friends. 
 
We settle down comfortably, and resume our frequent ritual.  The pale, acrid smoke calms down the remains of my weary day; and an unpleasant tale of my childhood springs forth from the well of memory previously closed.  These stories I hold close to my hidden heart prick me: for in remembrance of the past so tightly guarded I must let go of certain tokens.  This is the melancholy that I have tried so hard not to find.  These are the thinning clouds that dot the barren sky in my mind; of a dear friend I lost, from a far-away place and time.  Young children are granted in good faith with gifts, but at what cost?  Embodiments of the very thing, and once they are broken, so do are smiles, cheer, trust, and Love lost.

It was a great shame how I lost this long-ago friend to the despondency of those desperate men drowning their sorrows in the false hope of drunkenness. Since then, I’ve ensured that nothing else will have this influence over me; and in so doing, created a void where I’ve conveniently tossed all hope and light far away where it can’t hurt. Those men did something more than steal someone close to me: in point of dreadful fact, they were my murderers.  It was the bright laugh and innocence of a child that they had blundered over, it was my blood on their grubby hands, those bones they picked clean were none but my own. In time I would recover with no help and remain alone.  It would be a very long time, during which my heart would slowly grow cold, and hard as stone.
 
Tiring of taking a stroll in a past when I was blind to what could harm and what did not. I plucked at another string in this, my empty-chambered heart: and told of another story that would be lively.  On its own merit chase away the ghosts of red twilight skies, slaughtered dogs, and besotted bastards.  I shared with her my body’s-secret, but it was the wonder of such strangeness that even with clinical detail (and the morbid fascination of such occurring); soon we were laughing out bubbles of blue smoke.  Alternating between puffing at coffin-sticks and giggling over the silliness of it, we got over that, my particular history.   Of a certain peculiar feature that I have the honor of owning.  As with all secrets, only two may share without engendering malice.  One owns and shares with a friend the curiosity that cannot always be hidden.  In laughter all things are made clear.  In secrecy, all things dear are slowly consumed, then disappear.  By then I thought it best to tell her about the chicken that I had as a birthday present.

Small boats find difficulty in traversing the mighty seas, but in calmer weather there is nothing better at handling than a single sail craft in a placid pool of blue and green.  So it was with her and me.  A beautiful and animated conversation that propelled me to ask a question of some sensitivity.  With a fair degree of keeping at once both serious and quiet: she told me in a gentle voice that trust could be gained in time with sincerity and comfort.  I’ve had days when it seemed like the world was the worst place to be in, for it was big and empty as the heart that I was given.  But staying with her brings a warm smile to my lips, and a fuzzy feeling in my head which makes it good and right to spend time together. I am with her everyday, and my spirit soars when I see her.  I had almost forgotten how it is to write about the truth, when it really matters. I had a dream not long ago when I asked myself in a strange way: what it was that could bring back my happiness.  And she replied for the first time yesterday.  This is all I ever wanted. I have never asked for any more.  And when she smiles with me in this time that we have; it is all I have ever asked for.