Different times


The creek is a place that haunts me. And it haunts Efrim. We still talk about it, but in our separate confines, like priest and sinner. I think it odd that he sees us in those roles, I as the one who hears the confession, and he, needing my exculpation. But he was as innocent as I. We were participants in different ways. He urges me to forgive him, but there is nothing to forgive, other than, I suppose, in a biblical sense… the sins of the father visited upon their children.

Those were different times. That’s what I tell myself. It’s a panoptic excuse for the silence we inflict upon one another. It’s always a different time. We move on, but we’re still standing by the water. They’re the same moments relived in degrees of clarity. Our lives, really, were determined on that day and at that place.


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