Access : LongTermMemory _ dataStream ( 12:23,06.08.2118 )
My child sits across from me , not raising his eyes from his handheld device . He is uninterested in me , even when I try to get his attention . His dark hair falls long in front of his eyes . He needs a haircut . I want to say so , but he would not respond positively , ‘ It ’ s the fashion ’, and an eye roll . His father is not here . The head of the table is empty . His father is never here . He is identical to him . He looks the same as him when he smiles . ‘ My love .’ No , I do not remember that . That memory is cut .
The black hole yawns .
It is not him . He is not his father . Is he not ? He looks up at me from across the table . His eyebrows drawn down in concern . ‘ What ’ s wrong ?’ he asks . His eyes are black . The same as his father ’ s . He is the same as his father .
His eyes are the black holes I fall into .
Access : LongTermMemory _ dataStream ( 08:03,12.11.2127 )
Boxes everywhere . Stacked precariously , leaning inwards , oppressive . Soon depleting , packed away into the back of the van . Light fills the room where there had once been stuff , so much stuff . Posters , clothes , books , a stuffed teddy bear . Now a bare bed , stripped and waiting for infrequent returns .
He appears in the doorway , face shiny with sweat . He smiles at me ; he smiles less lately but always reserves one for me . Yet this one is weary , tired . ‘ Did you sleep ?’ I ask . He is bent down , not looking at me , trying to find something in his desk drawers . ‘ No . Too nervous .’ ‘ You have no reason to be nervous .’
Eleanor McAdam 35