Because I wasn't even done. Real time, baby.
Once his friend had fallen asleep, the boy who later became a man who visited this house that was so hard to find, would venture out unbeknownst to anyone. He had stashed a can behind the garage of what he was confident would be enough gasoline to do the job. The fire would be lit, and he’d return to his friend’s house, sneaking back through the unlocked front door and climbing into his sleeping bag, as if he’d never left, the work of a half-hour allowing that he was able to run both ways.
He was unsure which direction would be harder. He doubted his courage to go, but was banking on his cowardice to help him get away and not tear back into the house, looking for her through the smoke and flames. He pictured the two of them on the lawn after he had dragged her out, backlit by the blaze against the night’s sky, with no one to say that the planets in the heavens above failed to discern the boy and his mother as he was unable to discern them, the sounds of sirens becoming louder as they got closer, his father both unaccounted and accounted for.
She’d open her eyes, clear eyes, and look up and see him, and that would be all that mattered, and all that mattered for her. There was nothing else for at least the interval of this single rest between all of the motoric notes of existence, however quickly they were to resume again. Only the two of them. And he would know that that had happened. He would know forever. Wherever he was. And wherever he wasn’t.
Truth be told...
And so forth into what was there. Excerpts are one thing. But to see how this all comes together is something else.
Time to run stairs.