Wheeling Gull Isle flapkrasha

His mother spins a story and in his young mind her words string together in murky succession: bartswallowpew, loneliness, healing, faith and a lack of it, rivals and kings, ravenous lions, his mother’s anger and God’s voice.

He stares up at her from against the plush paleness of her chest, wide eyes clinging to every parable. It all seems to culminate in a single sentence that seeps into and fuses with his forming bones: God speaks in another voice.

He understands, he thinks. Or he is beginning to. That the hollowness he feels in his parents’ absence, or with siblings’ independence, is healed by God. God speaks to him in another voice. His bi-colored eyes hold over the depths of the Lion’s Den.

A warm droplet upon his ear shatters his revelation and he gazes up at his mother. She has the water in her eyes: she is sad and he doesn’t understand why.

“Ami?” he murmurs and hoists up onto her shoulder, to skim the tears of her eyes with his tongue.