The Twin In the Dust

It is night and we stand in a deserted park. There is no moon or stars to see through the clouds. A small figure comes from behind a tree and steps forward, face hidden in shadow. They are younger than me but look like an older version. We stand close as if expecting something. Our bodies are close and silent, a small island of quiet expectation in the storm. We are holding hands.

I turn to look at them and they lean their head against my arm. I have not seen this person in years, yet we both seem to know exactly what we should be doing here in this weather. The rain is falling and will continue all night. There is no other way to explain this than that they are mine and I am theirs. The child's drawing of a house I once owned is pinned to the ground by a stone, hidden by the rain.