The Summer of ‘98-A Short Story

I remember the summer of ‘98 like it was yesterday. The sun was a relentless tyrant, and the air was thick with the smell of cut grass and dusty sneakers. The neighborhood kids, a motley crew of preteens with scraped knees and boundless energy, spent every waking hour playing street soccer in front of old Mr. Atley’s house. He hated us, and we loved the thrill of annoying him. He was the grumpy Goliath, and we were the plucky Davids, a soccer ball our only sling. The best player on the street was Kevin. He was a year older than the rest of us, with a mop of sandy hair and a cocky grin. He was faster, more agile, and had a way of dribbling the ball that made it seem like an extension of his own foot. He knew it, too, and his constant showboating drove me crazy. I was a decent player, but Kevin always found a way to make me look like a clumsy oaf, stealing the ball from me with a quick flick of his ankle or nutmegging me with a cheeky grin. One day, our game intensified. It was just Kevi...
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The Lost Child

 Your absence is the furniture,

placed just so in every room.

The silence wears my slippers,

and moves in a familiar gloom.

The air's edges are swept,

where a soft body used to be.

Dusting the unread books,

and watering plants that still see the mother.

The years will heal, people say,

that wounds will fade to scars.

But the hole left is growing,

a dark and hungry jar.

And every kind word feels like a stone

dropped in a well that has no end.

The surface is unreachable,

silence will not bend.

The child was the sun that warmed a face,

and now the mother lives beneath the shade.

And this deep and endless night of grief

is the home a heart has made.

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