In the ancestral house. Packing for a trip. At the door of my parents' old bedroom. Repeated knocks prove nothing. Enter to immediate regret. Have to brace myself to balance against pain. Fragmented glass all over. Picking grains from feet. Glittering mound of shards in my right palm. Picking them, dropping them. Increasing volume of pleas. Begging for any aid, fearing myself unheard, crying.
Uncle Billy finally arrives. My father as well. Faces of quiet scorn, blaming me for carelessness. Dad offering a wastebin. Pouring dust like diamonds. My hardframe hiker's backpack stashed in a closet. Father sullen, Billy snickering. Whole house without power. Dim forgotten fire flickers in the cold black hearth. Why'd I come back? But I always do. Memory of hollow redounding shouts for help, echoing.
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