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Buddy had run almost all the way to the Port.

He signed on with the crew of the Darius; sixty-five feet and  eight crew.

We only found out later he was gone.

Mother had become a blubbering idiot in the stale smell of old cottage.

She sat in an Acadian rocker and covered her face. “My Buddy,” she sobbed.

Father just laughed. “Your Buddy, crap on that, all those nights he didn’t know

where you were.”

“I..I was at the theater.”

“Ah! The theater…” Father walked outside. “Someone should be bringing my car around.

Hungry little mouse?” staring at me. I hated him.

“Tell your mummy to fix some good lamb stew. The caretaker said she would leave a pot

in the ice box. Can’t be that hard to heat it up.”

I had never gone to any of father’s plays or read his manuscripts. He had read them a loud

to company, over and over. He had a melodious voice. Mother said he’d have made a fine Hamlet.

His last play and mother’s last performance was about an adulterous who gives

up her family for a young lover, contracts an illness and dies.

Father hated treachy actors. Mother wasn’t treachy. Father said her pathos seemed

almost real and then he laughed with a strange merriment.

I wasn’t  hungry. I walked out towards the cliffs. I thought, do not despair when night

draws near. A light will shine to bring you near. The lighthouse! Buddy would be safe.

You are safe with love and , my brother.

In morning light. I’ll spread my wings and take flight for need is near…till you are closer.