She didn’t believe in miracles. They didn’t happen. Not where she came from. There everything was everyday. Everyday houses, everyday people, everyday lives. No major tragedies either.
Except for Phil leaving twenty years ago.
No word of explanation. And now…
“Hi, mum.” He mumbled with a half-smile.
She almost didn’t catch his words. He stood against the morning light, blurred features, haloed.
A boy, he was just a boy.
In her memory.
She couldn’t move, she only looked. Stared. He stooped a little. His left shoulder higher than the right. Taller than he used to be. Backpack, battered shoes. Different. Grown up. And not. She raised her hand, touched his shoulder – and drew back at the sight of her black sleeve. She hung her head, immobile.
“Mum?” he asked softly.
She didn’t look up.
Couldn’t.
Wouldn’t.
He used to ask her a million questions – then. Where do the colours go in the night? Can happiness be caught in the candle light? When will we leave this darkness behind?
“Mum, I –”
“– I have no answers,” she cried and turned to go back in, out of the light.
“Don’t worry,” he muttered and, bridging the distance between them, he hugged her tight, right there on the bright doorstep, his face to her cheek: “I have.”