The Stream

Nothing tasted better than breakfast, so he thought for a long time, the ache never left him, the feeling of hunger. They had struggled together, she was social for the first five years of his life, stamps coupons and charity, amen. He passes over the fresh warm toast, his mother accepts it, she smiles, my boy she says, my boy, even if he had a father, what did it matter, she was the one who reared one. There was no music her side of the family, he had a brother who was a guitar genius, her son’s father, maybe that was where he got the talent from. From the back of the big yacht, she lapped it up, admiring her life many years later, except for the one yearning in her heart, we could have had a few of them, them, her children. She settled for one when she could have had a stream, then again, all she ever wanted was one.

 

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