Swallows

Winter crawled back into the world. Day swallowed into thick night, morning coughed out again.

Federico thinks about time. Does it feel the same way for everybody or does time change from person to person? How far back or forward it reaches before it dissolves. Elizabeth said time is make-believe. There's no beginning, no end. The trouble is getting your mind to stretch round the idea.

Afternoons spent at the window, fan heater whirring at his feet. Rain falls in heavy pellets and his vertebrae crackle and readjust. Tom's stopped asking if Federico wants to help in the studio. Tom's hardly there anyway, spends his time at the kitchen table chewing the end of his pen and yelling numbers down the phone to his broker. When the numbers are good he claps Federico on the back, says, Boyo, the sky is full of it, you just need to know where to put your bucket.

Elizabeth says, Tom, when are you going to drain the back paddock? It's a mud pool. Tom puts his hand over the mouthpiece. Honey, in a few months I'll make you a swimming pool.

On fine days Federico bikes to school, breathes sharp air into his lungs. Swallows fly overhead. Switch and flash like black daystars. A shifting galaxy.