He rose early when the morning felt fresh and uninvaded. He was stiff. His windows were high, cutting him across the chest, the sky lay scrolled upon the roofs, a helix over the city. He opened one of the sashes to hear its thrum. Just before dawn this thrum stopped and isolated sounds arose. To him these were the sounds of love, grief, regret.
Today his daughter Bethsabée was passing by after school. He felt this with a charged heaviness. It was not that he felt no responsibility, but the child was not a part of his life. He knew they shared traits. Though their skins were different shades he knew she was of him, as did she. After the child’s mother left he had entered a long period of incarceration that no love had entered. It had been shoved under the door on a brutal metal dish, it had pierced him in slices of light.