I stand on Lonely Hill and the knots of my lips rise as I watch him kite flying with his son. An emerald glows above our heads through the patient but scorched sky. The dad peaks behind the boy, his nervous hands clutch over his son’s as they grip the string.
I muter the words they share.
‘Up a bit. Down now. A little more powerful, son. No that’s too much; yes that’s better, look at it soar.’
They go about this dance but it always ends. This time a tremor in the sea beyond silences our voice and the grass divides into rusted memories. Piss stings the air as a wave of yellow pollutes Lonely Hill.
The last thing I see is his hands holding onto the broken kite.
‘I’m sorry.’ I shout. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry...’
But Dad can’t hear me.
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