I hear the wind as she passes over the tree, the screen door and the windows’ edges.
I hear the train as he moves stealthily through the morning night.
I am awake.
I sit on the futon in this small living room.
The dogs sleep next to me.
The candles burn.
I write these words on white paper with a black ball point pen.
A book called “Birds of the Trans Peco” rests beneath the paper to hold it steady.
I reach for my coffee. I gaze for a moment at the green mug, Japanese symbols in black are there.
My son gave me this mug.
I say a prayer for him and Helen.
I breathe.
This is all I know.
