The ‘missing’ posters were on every bulletin board. A photo of him and his dad smiling, a description of him. A week or so later the paper ran a nostalgic article about the young man and his accomplishments, hobbies, his happiness and love of life.
I imagined flying with him in his floatplane. We’d land at some remote island off the coast with nothing but trees and rocks, watch a sunset, stare into each other’s eyes. He would warm my ice cold hands, calm my shivers with his presence.
But his hands are cold. Why can’t I love the living?
The ‘missing’ posters were on every bulletin board. A photo of him and his dad smiling, a description of him. A week or so later the paper ran a nostalgic article about the young man and his accomplishments, hobbies, his happiness and love of life.
I imagined flying with him in his floatplane. We’d land at some remote island off the coast with nothing but trees and rocks, watch a sunset, stare into each other’s eyes. He would warm my ice cold hands, calm my shivers with his presence.
But his hands are cold. Why can’t I love the living?
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