Pitter Patter

The grey boy wrinkles in the hands of greater things, wrinkles up like paper, Hands on knees and knees on chin, the wrinkled boy trembles in the hand of his mind. The room is dark, there is no light, and all he sees are shades of grey, his body of grey, the curtains grey, the wooden door dripping grey, and then he notices: the red water beneath him. And it makes him shiver. He hears them. Outside; He hears the pitter patter, the barefoot running, the echoing laughter, and the feel of a cold breeze rushing down a hall. They remind him of his past, running down the hall to his father’s room, and when the pitter patter of feet stops he knows the child has fallen, the laughter is the father, the breeze is the swinging of the child in the air, the whimper is his own, in this dark grey room; He lifts his knees higher. Uncomfortable as the red pool grows around him, He knows it shouldn’t grow, he wonders why, whimpers in the dark, and wonders why. The cold creeps up and he shivers, his teeth chatter away at the night and his knees knock heads in comfort; The pitter patter of feet comes closer, the wrinkled boy sways to the ground, A grey feather stained in red. Wracking sobs pump grey into his once rosy cheeks; The pitter patter turns to thunder. It rumbles down the hall, rumbles to his room; It rumbles and he shivers and the growing pool of red ripples; He sees his distorted reflection in the red: “Why am I grey?” He shivers again, he whimpers, tired of shivering and the cold and the grey and wanting the red to go away. And yet he waits, shivers and dreads, and the thunder grows louder yet. His gaze fixes on the door as the thunder comes churning through. His eyes shut down, his knees lock up, and he trembles in the moment. But as he yields open his eyes, the grey world melts away to the thunder of light, and he forgets all colors dark or red. All he sees is a little boy, in his father’s arms, and he remembers the car and the road, the sirens and the screams, and he smiles, thinking of the laughing and racing of the pitter patter, and wonders why he was so afraid. © Samir Georges 2010