It was dark when he opened his eyes.
The ochre landscape and his glitter powder, subtly deposited by sunlight, had died when his eyes closed.
And now there was nothing anymore.
Nothing more than meandering memories almost erased and tarnished colors of old pictures.
Behind the window was emerging the urbanized stretch of a landing strip and, on macadam, halos of light, which was outlining his edge, was ominously reflecting. He shivered.
He didn’t know how long the plane had stopped.
But he knew it was cold, horribly cold.
He clumsily pulled up his legs against his chest and wrapped them with the too large sweater from her shoulders.
Worn fibers emitted a stifled snap before stretched more.
His forehead mechanically leaned on the little window and he pulled his arms in his sleeves.
He could hear his mother scold in the prevailing silence.
She had never tolerated this habit he had to deform his clothes.
And she shouted: “a sweater, a beautiful sweater!
Do you know what’s the price of a sweater today?
Perhaps you’ll pay the new one I’ll have to buy for you?!
One day, this kid will kill me!
And sit up properly!
I haven’t educated you like that.” A yawn unhinged his jaw. Never mind.
She wasn’t here to say something tonight.
June 2014
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