The silence hangs like a thick haze outside, in the store, in between them. It will be dark soon though the sun has been shrouded for days.
When the lawnmower broke, we did nothing. We never talked about it, we just watched the grass grow long around it.
Nobody really expected them to last the full six years in there, in that learning factory.
Like a grandfather clock, the old oak ticks against the window. The carpet is pressed down in squares and rectangles, the way grass remembers a picnic.
Mile marker, mast or man, like so many things that slipped away and turned from useful into garbage after wandering for too long, the birds no longer look for –or care about– the difference.
You taught me how to align the small, trembling needle of the compass you carried in your pocket, with the gold colored arrow pointing north (so I could always find my way).