The barks of a mother overhead announce the dropping of gloves left behind like thunder precludes the rain. Two small boys stand in the guilt and dust as tiny red gloves flutters to the ground from a fourth-floor balcony. Dressed in little gentleman suits and already-crooked ties, their usual enthusiasm is neatly bridled. Neither tries to catch them. The gloves land on the ground with a puff as more mother-barks hammer down like hail. The now-not-so-red gloves are snatched up and quickly stuffed into a pocket to be forgotten again. History, as they say, inevitably repeats itself.
Shifting cumbersome backpacks they begin their trek to the gate with the snail’s pace of old men. The conversation is equally glum. No giggles or sticking out of tongues; just somber expressions and an occasional nod. The weight of the day ahead chokes out even the gleeful anticipation of the rollicking race home when it’s over. The bus arrives with a squeak of brakes and two little soldiers trudge off to war.
A small stone in River of Stones entry.