Turn To Dust by Raymond
CHIKE:
It is raining.
I walk down this street, my hands in the pockets of my hoodie, hood over my head. I don’t remember how I got here, and even the name of the street eludes me, just as understanding, and peace, eludes me. In my right pocket, I softly stroke the piece of metal I’d picked on that day, not too far from the crash site.
The day the sky fell down.
The day life decided that it…that it…
“Hey Mum! Come quickly! You don’t want to be late!”
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” she answers, laughing as she runs to the car. “This boy, you want me to fall? See how you are making me run!”
