Confluence

"His figure was less and less my father and more and more a small tree of odd colors."

"Certain memories are like scars, how they last."

“In the quiet between visitors, the place stills and contemplates what makes one year colder than another, why the sky is blue and not green, not noticing the bird crafting its nest, the familiar face in a cloud drifting overhead.”

“Silence. The flip of a thin page, like a wave.”