By Tony Whieldon
I remember standing in the red-tiled hallway of our old house, in tears as the drone of my father’s car fades. He’s taken the rest of the family out for the day, leaving me behind as punishment for a bad report from school.
Left alone, the house feels strange. I cast a defiant “Ha!” at the silence. But my scalp prickles at an alien quality in the echo of my own voice. I retreat to the warmth of the kitchen. Cut myself a chunk of bread. Spread butter thickly enough to leave tooth-prints. Spoon on honey. And, as I trim the sweet overflow with my tongue, my spirits rise. Things are looking different now.