jory frost | twelve | cb

winter ;

We said goodbye today. The assurance was there like the cold against my knuckles, aching and stubborn. I never wanted this day to come.

We were in the fields. Now that the wheat had dried up into little more than dry straw, we spoke more quietly: more carefully. We were not invisible anymore; God, I wish we could've disappeared.

"This is the end," he said. His breath released steam against the stale December air and he cupped a cloud of it with his hands as if to warm his palms.

"I stayed away for a reason, Boy."

He never wanted me to be like this: to be like him. To be a memory, or a ghost. To walk with my head down and run when someone looked my way. A criminal; a man whose crimes were punishable by death. Leaving had been for the best back then.

"Look at you. Following in my footsteps all the same."

I held my breath, shell shocked and silent, and he stood. The earth was so dry and so lonesome; no birds were in the distant pines. He didn't even look at me.

"I wanted better for you, Son."

Then he disappeared, as ghosts and memories do.

summer ;

I wait for his return to the fields. The wheat is so vibrant; he'd be proud that Mom and I have kept it up so well. But the nights grow longer; he never shows.

I accept that he isn't coming.