Thirteen
“Are you okay?” Christopher shut the door to his bedroom. His room was neat and orderly. The bed was made. A navy blue comforter lay folded down at the foot. I walked over to his dresser. There were a few pictures on his dresser top. No one was alone in any of the photos. There was always a group. I recognized his mother in several photos.
“It’s still hard for me to understand how they could share that.” I touched his face in the glass of one of the picture frames. “It’s evident they love each other.”
“You share your writing. It’s intimate, from your heart. You let hundreds, thousands of people read it. They’re your innermost thoughts, fears, and desires. And you let them all in.”
Adjectives, verbs, and nouns swam in my brain but I couldn’t grasp on to any one for a response.
