Videredigtning fra Tsunami's historie her : http://www.gamereactor.dk/blog/tsunami/67558/

Ankar te. Neruhm te. An'shar te. Ankar te.

Samuel kiggede bag sig. De to andre sad ved siden af hinanden, på den anden side af tømmerflåden, låst i tavs samtale, stirrende ud over det uendelige ocean. Vinden vuggede stille tømmerflåden med sine tre sjæle henover dybblå bølger, uden mål eller mening. Samuel vendte blikket tilbage til vandet lige foran hans egne fødder; Kørte distræt en hånd igennem sit lange hår, for atter en gang at konstatere at håret var en filtret masse limet sammen af saltvand og sved. Hvor lang tid havde de været her nu? Hvor lang tid kunne det blive ved? "Man må tilegne sig vandets værdier," havde Paul sagt, og sagte tilføjet "... for hvad andet er der her?" Johannes, hvis blik var blevet så tomt og ufokuseret som tiden skred frem, havde nikket, tilsyneladende med en dybfølt forståelse som Samuel på ingen måde delte. Vandets værdier? Ingen af de to andre vidste hvad det betød.

Kahrek ne'pol te. Ankar mora, raga mora. Ankar te, Kahrek elder.

Hvor lang tid havde de været her? Samuel vidste det ikke længere. Hvert daggry, hver opvågnen, betød en frygtelig rædsel for at dette var dagen hvor han endelig glemte fuldkommen. Ikke blot glemte hvor lang tid de havde været her, men glemte selve spørgsmålet. Som det var sket for Johannes. Som det ville ske for Paul hvis ikke mørket og bedrøvelsen tog livet fra ham først. Samuel ville ikke lade det ske for ham selv. Vandet boblede sagte for hans fødder. Små bobler der vidnede om noget kolossalt i dybet.

Han havde følt tvivl da han begyndte sit værk. Havde udsat det så længe som muligt, afsøgt alle andre muligheder, ladet sit håb om redning strække sig til det yderste, ladet det briste, for derefter møjsommeligt at reparere det og igen lade det strække sig til det knagede. Men i dag var han vågnet med en frygtelig, fremmed, kvalmende følelse, som intet andet han havde følt i al sin tid på flåden, et sidste varsel om at timeglasset var ved at rinde ud. Tilfredshed. Som han havde ligget der og misset med øjnene imod morgensolen havde han, i bare et par sekunder, følt sig helt og aldeles hjemme. Hans sidste håb var bristet, og stod ikke til at redde.

Ankar te. Neruhm te.

Samuel stirrede først ned I vandet, derefter op i skyerne. Lukkede øjnene og tog en dyb indånding. Så lagde han sig fladt ned på maven og lod sit hoved falde udover kanten, ned i vandet.

An'shar te, raga mora. Ankar te, kahrek elder

Hans sammenfiltrede hår løsnede sig I vandet, svævede som en skygge omkring hans ansigt. Samuel åbnede øjnene og stirrede ned i dybet, som stirrede tilbage på ham. Samuel åbnede munden og skreg de sidste ord i ritualet ud i vandet, udspyede bobler i skyggerne omkring hans ansigt, glinsende sølvgopler der flygtede panisk fra mørket i dybet.

Leviathan. Ankar te. Leviathan, inca al.

Noget enormt bevægede sig i mørket, langt nede, vred sig som i smerte alt imens det langsomt dukkede frem af havets skygger. Et mægtigt hoved kiggede op imod tømmerflåde og to gule øjne lyste op i mørket. "Jeg er mørket under vandet; Jeg er sømandens endeligt, dybets mester, havets altfortærende sult, den endelige dommer over alle mænd der vover at besudle mine oceaner med deres urene og uønskede tilstedeværelse; Jeg er Leviathan. Hvem er du, der vover at vække mig af min søvn?" "Mester, jeg er en fortabt sjæl." "Din fortabelse er intet for mig. Min skaber gav mig ingen nåde at dele" "Mester, jeg ønsker ingen nåde. Jeg ønsker en ende." Væsenet kom stadig tættere på, blev ved med at vokse. Samuels sind sloges for at fatte dets egentlige omfang. Et mægtigt gult øje blinkede dybt under tømmerflåden. Den torpedoformede skygge af en hval flygtede i hast henover øjets overflade, for at blive kastet ud i mørket af dets mindste blink. Samuel stirrede i frygt, og ærefrygt, og Leviathan stirrede tilbage på ham. "En ende?" "Jeg... kan ikke mere. Jeg vil ikke miste mig selv. Min tid og mine kræfter er slupper op. Du er den endelige dommer over alle mænd på havet. Døm mig!" En sagte rumlen fra dybet, en latter så dyb at rystelserne ikke kunne høres men blot føles i hele kroppen. "Og hvad er så en passende dom, synes du, Menneske?" "Mit liv er... en tåge. Men jeg er ingen helgen. Så meget ved jeg. Jeg fortjener..." "En straf? " Det gule øje fyldte hele Samuels univers, var alt hvad han kunne se, var hele havet, og Leviathans mindste hvisken var som et jordskælv. "Hvorfor tror du at du er på flåden, Menneske?"

Samuel rev sit ansigt op af vandet, gispede efter vejret. Rejste sig op og stod med lukkede øjne imens havvandet drev løb ned over hans ryg og bryst. Derefter tog han en dyb indånding og gik over til de to andre. Johannes kiggede op på ham da han satte sig ned ved siden af dem. "Var det rart med en dukkert?" "Hmmm?" Samuel kiggede på ham, et øjebliks forvirring. "Nåhja, det var meget rart." Paul's blik var låst fast på horisonten. "Hvor lang tid har vi egentlig været her nu? Hvor mange dage?" Samuel lod sine fingre køre igennem sit lange, nu våde, hår. "Hvad mener du? Været hvor?" "Her. Her på tømmerflåden, selvfølgelig." Samuel lænede sig tilbage på sine albuer og lod sine fødder dingle i vandet. "Aner det ikke. Jeg er holdt op med at tænke på det, for at være helt ærlig." Han smilede og kiggede ud mod horisonten. "Man må tilegne sig vandets værdier, ikke?"

Med andre ord, Jylland. Eller i virkeligheden så mange andre steder på denne jord. Faktisk de fleste, eftersom ovennævnte beskrivelse fra en byboers perspektiv dækker alle steder på jordens overflade med en befolkningstæthed lavere end 100 beboere per kvadratkilometer. Tanken om at leve et sted hvor man kan være alene bare ved at træde uden for sin hoveddør afføder en dyb eksistentiel rædsel i den inkarnerede byboer.

Jeg har det lidt mærkeligt med at betegne mig selv som 'byboer'. Jeg er vokset op dels i Klampenborg (der al sin mercedesbefængte bedsteborgerlighed til trods næppe kan kaldes for 'byen'), dels i en flække i Midtengland, som muligvis havde flere får og køer end mennesker. Jeg erindrer i hvert fald meget klart fornemmelsen af at jokke mine 5-årige fødder ned i en kokasse dyb nok til at nå op til min ankel.

Jeg kan huske første gang jeg egentligt 'oplevede' byen, første gang jeg tænkte over byen og hvordan det måtte være at bo der; Det var da en af mine ældre kusiner var flyttet ind til byen. Min far kørte os ind for at besøge hende (eller også var det bare et tilfældigt ærinde, som jeg siden har glemt, hvor vi tilfældigt kom forbi hendes nye hjem; Femogtyve år er længe siden), og jeg husker at jeg kiggede op på de vinder jeg fik at vide var hendes, og så alle vinduerne omkring dem, og overfor dem, og betonjunglen omkring dem, og menneskemylderet, og bilerne, og det hele samlede sig inde i mit hoved i en uoverskuelig, skræmmende jungle. Jeg kunne ikke forestille mig nogensinde at flytte ind til byen. Det var fremmed, skræmmende og uvirkeligt.

Og her sidder jeg så i min lejlighed på Østerbro (indrømmet, et noget pænere sted end den Nørrebro lejlighed vi besøgte den dag). Jeg har boet her i 16 år efterhånden, og jeg kan dårligt forestille mig at bo andetsteds; Tanken om at bo ude i et villakvarter hvor verden dør med et stille suk efter klokken 18:00 virker så kedelig. Nej, jeg går jo ikke i byen hver fredag mere ("ræk mig lige min pibe og min slåbrok, skat. Og skru op for varmen. Hvad? Så skru mere op."), men alligevel er det en luksus at hele byen ligger lige uden for min hoveddør; indenfor 15 minutters rask cykeltur ligger der svømmehaller, biografer, fodboldstadion, restauranter, museer, universiteter og flere kiosker end man kan tælle uden at bruge tæerne. Tanken om at flytte til villakvarter efterlader mig fuldkommen kold. Hvad skal man der? Udover at gå og pudse sin Volvo imens man taler henover ligusterhækken med naboen om hvor frygteligt der er inde i byen med alle narkomanerne og de autonome indvandrer rockerbander der sprøjter sig med hash. Og så gå i seng klokken 21 efter at have set TV siden kl 18 fordi der ikke er fucking andet at lave.

Hvilket bringer mig tilbage til dagens egentlige emne; Mørke, ensomhed og lugten af lort. Skulle jeg endelig bo et andet sted end byen, skulle det være langt, langt ude på Lars Tyndskids marker. Så skulle det være et sted hvor man virkelig var alene når man lukkede døren bag sig. Hvor det blev mørkt om natten, og ikke bare gråt (Det er fantastisk når der en sjælden gang imellem er strømafbrydelse i byen, og mørket griber sin chance og sniger sig ind i byen, bare for en enkelt nat.) Og ja, et sted hvor der lugtede af lort et par gange om året, om end det ikke er noget ufravigeligt krav. Ensomhed og mørke er det eneste man aldrig rigtigt får inde i byen, og det er noget jeg godt kunne bruge en gang imellem. Ro til at tænke, ro til at arbejde, ro til bare at være, uden at skulle være noget specielt.

Med andre ord er jeg ved at være en rigtig gammel nisse, som egentlig hellere ville have fred til at skrive og læse end friheden til at opleve alle byens vidundere på et dagligt basis.

Det kan være jeg gør det en dag. Men jeg bliver nok nødt til at vente 15-20 år, indtil ungerne er strittet ud. Så køber jeg familien Tyndskids gamle gårdbygninger og ombygger dem til et mondænt lille Klampenborg hjem med B&O fjernsyn og Volvo. Og sikkert også en ligusterhæk, selvom der ingen naboer er. Man ved jo aldrig. Og så kan jeg være i fred; bare mig, mørket og lugten af lort.

"We need to talk." No one ever wanted to talk like that. What ‘we' needed to talk about was always something bad, and not only bad, but something that was actually going to happen, like an iceberg already looming in the mist, unavoidable. Rachel had said it too.

It was a cold evening in February when Paul rose from his dining table to answer the doorbell, wondering who would call at this hour. On his doorstep stood Rachel, wrapped up in a huge coat but visibly shivering all the same. "Hi Paul." Rachel smiled, looking tired and nervous. "It's been a long time, huh?" Paul stood in shocked silence for a few seconds. "Uh... Hi. Wow. This is really unexpected. Come in, come in, let's get you out of the cold." After Rachel had gotten inside, and while she was shedding her layers of winter clothing, Paul finally got around to asking the obvious question. "Rachel, why are you here? This is kind of sudden." Rachel paused, with her coat half off. "We've got to talk, Paul. I'm going to need some help." "Oh. Ok. I'll make us some tea." By the time Paul set the teapot onto the table in front of the old green sofa, He already had a pretty good idea what they had to talk about. The shape of the iceberg was easy to see in Rachel's drawn face, her thinness. Not just a thinness of the body, but a thinness of her voice and a frailty in her movement that he had never seen there before. Ten years had passed since Rachel put down her morning paper, and Paul certainly felt those years on him; but Rachel looked ravaged by far more than just years. "I'm dying, Paul. They say I have 3 months. Maybe." Paul's voice caught in his throat, his mind tried desperately not to understand. "I'm so sorry, Rachel. I always... I'm so sorry." Rachel smiled. "Me too. I'm sorry to come here and dump this on you. You don't deserve this. But I really need help. Please?" "You know I'll do whatever I can, Rachel. Anything. Tell me what I can do."

Rachel needed a place to die. Her life after leaving Paul had been spent running around trying to do everything she felt she'd missed while taking care of the kids, the house, the car, the pets and the husband. And to a great extent she'd been successful, but when the cancer struck she found that she had no one really close to turn to. She refused to burden her children, themselves mothers by now. So she'd had only one place to turn. Dying is at best difficult, usually unpleasant and at worst horrific business. Rachel suffered through her final four months with more dignity than Paul could ever imagine anyone in that situation doing. And as he did his best to take care of her, talking to doctors and family and making sure she had her pills and her drops and her needles and clean sheets and company, he discovered that he still loved her. Not just the dutiful love that a man felt for his wife, but with the same fierce passion he remembered from before the kids, the car and the house. For a few months it was as if she'd never left, as if they'd lived here, together, undisturbed for those last ten years. And each and every morning, he would stand in the kitchen with his hand on the cupboard door, but never open it. And then she left again. The funeral was held in the local church, and the wake was held at the house on Schooner Lane. As Paul sat surrounded by the grief of his and Rachel's friends, the grief of their children and grandchildren, in his coat pocket he clutched the end of her pain, grinding his teeth and cursing himself silently for wanting her to stay so badly.

15 years later, Paul sat in his living room, holding a cup of Tea and watching his daughter cry. The kids had gone off to bed, and it had finally been time to talk; Paul had simply turned off the TV, made tea and then waited for the dam to burst. "He's leaving me. Antoine is leaving me for some fucking whore he met at the office. I don't know how long it's been going on. I don't want to know. But I don't know what to do. Get a lawyer, I guess." Sophia paused to blow her nose. "Dammit, how could I have been so blind. I never saw it coming. He just kept telling me those damn stories, and like a fool I believed him. If he'd been working late that often we'd have been rich by now. But maybe I just didn't want to see. I feel so stupid." Paul reached out to put his hand on her shoulder. "Sophia, when your mom left me, I never saw it coming either. We never want things to end, do we?" "That was different, dad. Mom didn't cheat on you, or really stop loving you. She just needed to do something for herself. Jeremy just wants to fuck someone else." Paul couldn't really argue with that. "Maybe. But it hurt just the same, you know." "I know dad. I know. I just... Dad, I don't know where to go. I can't go back home to that house. I won't." "Have you talked to the kids about this? They don't seem-" Sophia raised her hand to interrupt him. "No, I haven't told them. They think their dad is off on a business trip. That's what he told them. What he told me." "You have to tell them, Sophia." "I know, dad. Tomorrow."

Sophia told the boys the next morning, right after breakfast, as they all sat around the dining table. Henry took the news with his usual outward calm, although Paul could tell by his grandsons fidgeting that he was not happy about it. Henry's elder brother, however, did not. Thomas called his mother a liar. He shouted denial, and for a brief moment Paul thought his grandson might actually strike his own mother. But Sophia stared him down, and held her ground. "Goddammit, Mom. God fucking damn it!" He screamed. Then he ran from the house and out onto the street. Sophia made to follow him, but Paul stopped her. "Let him go, Sophia. He needs to blow off steam, think a bit. He'll be back." Henry stood up and said "I'm going to go sit in the garden for a while. Read my book." Sophia hugged him. "Ok dear. Please come and talk if there's something you need to talk about" "I will, mom. And don't worry about Tommy, He'll calm down."

Paul walked into the kitchen and softly shut the door behind him. He leaned on the kitchen table, and closed his eyes for a few short seconds, trying to come up with some answers even though he knew he had none. This was the end. He could feel it reaching for him through the cupboard door, waiting for him to acknowledge it. What was he anymore? His family was gone, his wife was gone. He could not even help his children. He was a walking hole in the universe, pointless and without purpose. He opened the cupboard, distractedly letting the biscuit tins clatter onto the linoleum floor. He grabbed the end of the world and sank to the floor staring into its depths. Sophia called from the living room, asking what the noise was. Paul called back that he was fine.

Henry was sitting in the garden, staring at his book but not really reading it, when his grandfather sat down next to him. His brother Thomas had just come home and was talking quietly with their mother in the dining room. "What are you reading, Henry?" said Paul. "It's just some fantasy stuff, granddad. I don't think it's your kind of thing." "A bit of an imagination never hurt anyone. Maybe a bit of fantasy is a good thing when there's trouble in the real world. Like now." Henry shrugged. "I guess." "I'm not going to ask you if you're ok, Henry. Because I know you're not. You just don't show it like your brother. But..." Paul paused, searching for the right words. "I want to promise you that everything is going to be ok. Not right now, but later. Things end, Henry, even pain and troubles. Especially pain and troubles." Henry said nothing. "Anyway, I've got something for you. It's something you have to see for yourself." Paul laid the thing in Henry's lap. Henry stared at it. "What is it, granddad?" "It's an... end, Henry. That's all I can tell you." "What do I do with it?" "You keep it. It'll be our little secret. You'll know when to use it. You'll just know, if you let yourself know." "It's... beautiful, granddad. So bright." "It is. For you, it is." Paul smiled. "You know what? I think I'll go make some cookies. Want to come help me?" Henry tore his gaze from the end and looked at his grandfather. "I didn't know you made cookies, granddad?" "I don't," laughed Paul, "But maybe it's time I tried. I don't seem to do much else these days, do I? And I seem to have a whole stack of biscuit tins lying around."

Paul Henry Thurbot taught himself to make cookies. He taught himself to paint, albeit badly. For the next few years he sent cookies round to all his daughters' houses every few months. He painted bad pictures that he enjoyed immensely, and he hung them all around the house on Schooner Lane, even in the rooms he never used before. And then he died, quietly, in his sleep. At his funeral his children and grandchildren cried, not because the missed him, but because he had always been there, and they were reminded of how they feared their own deaths. All except young Henry, who stood quietly beside his mother and brother, holding the end of his fear.

Paul finished his breakfast, remembering to put the bowl in the kitchen sink before plodding back up to his bedroom. He'd laid out some of his nicer clothes for today, he felt, but he knew with certainty that his daughter would not find it so. "Oh dear, ... father, really, you can't go out like that. Are you colorblind? Where do you even get these things?" She would say with an exasperated smile, and probably reach out to straighten his tie as if that would help. He would never tell Sophia how much it hurt when she said it, he knew she meant no harm. Not that he was ashamed of his wardrobe, at his age he'd stopped caring long ago what people thought of him and his fashion sense. No, it hurt because she looked just like her mother. The same sigh, the same slight frown above her smile, the way she clamped her lips together while she half-mockingly righted his tie and straightened his shirt. It cut him to the bone, it brought back every memory he ever had of Rachel.

It had been June when Sophia, the last of his daughters to do so, left home to attend university. It had been August when Rachel looked up from her morning paper and told him she was leaving. He'd just sat there staring at her across the dining table, a cup of tea halfway to his lips. She didn't look angry or even upset, just a bit tired and nervous. "What? Where are you going?" "I don't know, Paul. But I have to get out of here or I'll go crazy." "You're ... leaving me? Is there another man? Why haven't you said anything?" Rachel had sighed and looked down. "Paul, I'm getting old. So are you. We've spent all these years taking care of business, taking care of the children, the house, the pets, the car and the bills. And we've always been a good team, and I've always loved and respected you. But now Sophia is gone, and I've come to realize that I love and respect you as a friend, or maybe as a coworker. But if we're coworkers, then the job is done, isn't it Paul? I will not sit here and do nothing for the last third of my life. There is no other man, Paul, and I don't think there ever will be, but we're not really married anymore, are we? With the children gone, we're really just... living here together." She took a deep breath, and with only a slight quiver in her voice, said "I'm really sorry to hurt you, Paul, but I really think this is for the best."

He'd tried to talk her out of it, of course. But in his heart he knew she was right; He wanted her to stay simply because she'd always been there. The war was over, and it was time for the soldiers to go home. In the end the divorce was quick and clean, their last joint effort. Paul had been intensely relieved that none of the girls had seemed particularly distressed or even shocked at the news. Maybe they'd all seen it coming. Maybe he'd been the straight man for some bizarre joke, the only one not to see the writing on the wall. If so, he could not bring himself to resent his girls or his wife (he would always think of Rachel as his wife, legal documents be damned), and it did not seem that they felt any animosity towards him either. Life simply went on. On the last day, as she'd been packing her things, she'd called his name from the kitchen. "Paul? What's this?" Paul stepped into the kitchen. "Did you say something?" "Look at this thing. I found it behind those old biscuit tins. I decided I was going to take one of them with me, they were always one of my favorite things in this kitchen, so... Anyway, I found this behind them. Isn't it odd? I've never seen it before." "It's an old... end, one I found when I was a kid." She looked at him curiously. "So it's been there for all these years? Incredible. " She looked again at the end, turning it over in her hands and feeling its weight. "God this thing is heavy. You can definitely keep this." She smiled and handed him the end of his marriage. Then she got her bags, put on her coat, and left the house on Schooner Lane. Paul Henry watched her go from the window, before putting the end back in its cupboard.

He never wore this shirt unless he had visitors, and he always remembered why as soon as he put it on. It was a nice shirt, very clean, and always well pressed and folded. But it itched. It always had. Maybe if he wore it more the itch would go away, but he never did. He had other shirts for other days. For the rest of the morning, Paul sat in the sofa watching old, grainy, black and white pictures of Adolph Hitler on his newish TV in flawless high definition, while a narrator too young to remember anything about the war talked and talked, doing his best to turn the slaughter of millions into entertainment. Paul watched because it was the only thing he could bear to watch. Sport had lost its attraction years ago. Murder mysteries were no longer mysterious, just sad grief porn. And so-called ‘reality TV' was too surreal for him to grasp. He'd have put on movie, had he not been waiting for the doorbell to ring. It finally did. With a sense of relief, Paul got up from the sofa, turned off the TV and walked to the door, pausing only to stare at his reflection in a mirror, doing his best to get the tie just right. He opened the door with his best welcoming smile on his face. Sophia was busy trying to get her teenage sons to pay attention for thirty consecutive seconds, so for a few moments he simply stood there in the open door, waiting, until she finally turned around. "Hi, Dad" She smiled and hugged him. "Kids! Will you stop fooling around and get up here. Say hello to Granddad." His two grandchildren ran up the stairs to the front door, huge behemoths vaguely resembling the babies he had pictures of beside his TV. He hugged them, and they hugged him back with genuine affection. Thomas was big blonde boy, almost 15 now and as boisterous as only a teenage boy could be. His brother Henry was a few years younger, and held far more of his grandfather's quiet nature. The two boys thundered up the stairs with their bags, shouting, fighting, laughing. Their mother watched them go, and then turned to Paul. "I'm so glad to see you, Dad. I've... "Her smile faltered for a brief moment as she continued,"we have to talk. Tonight, when the boys are off to bed, OK? I really need to talk to you."

In a house on Schooner Lane lived Paul Henry Thurbot, alone but not forgotten. The house had been bought to contain the entire Thurbot family, and had barely managed to do so, threatening at every moment to burst at the seams from the sheer business and drama of the task. Paul, His wife Rachel, their three daughters and two dogs and three cats had made the house on Schooner Lane seem as busy as an airport for so many years that its present desolation might almost have come as a relief to the old building, a long awaited retirement in its old age. These days Paul Henry muddled through his retirement, occasionally visited by his daughters and his grandchildren, sudden explosions of sound and fury that the old house seemed to inexplicably dampen, to contain and control like the veteran of such things that it was. The house was a great deal too large for a single person to fill, or even to adequately occupy; It might be more accurate to say that Paul Henry lived in one bedroom, one living room and a bit of the kitchen. The remaining two bedrooms, dining room, cellar, attic and office were occupied only by yellowing wallpaper and dust motes floating in graying beams of sunlight. In the kitchen, amongst the red linoleum floors, white tiles and ancient appliances that Paul never bothered to use anymore, Paul kept his most cherished possession; In a cupboard over the sink, at the very back of the cupboard, shielded from the casual eye by a stack of old biscuit tins, Paul kept the end of the world.

He'd found it when he was just a boy, on a fishing trip with his dad. The sun shone on the lake as they sat with their fishing rods, Paul remembered it like it was yesterday. The old man had never really bothered catching anything, had merely gone to have some peace and quiet. But Paul hadn't known that at the time, and had been fiercely proud to go with his father on these trips. His sisters had never been allowed to go, or perhaps had never wanted to. The young Paul never considered the latter option, and his Father never bothered to tell him. Paul and his father shared the ability to be quiet and simply relax; only slightly disturbed by Paul's excitement when a fish actually struck. As the day drew to an end, and the sun became a blinding glare across the lake, Paul went off into the bushes to take care of business before the long drive home. As he stood in deep thought by an old oak tree, his eye caught on something lying in the leaves. He did himself up and knelt carefully down, scooping the mysterious thing up in both hands. He sat staring at it for a few minutes, knowing what it was but now knowing how he knew, or how to put his knowledge into words. His reverie was interrupted by his dad's voice asking whether he was tying knots in there, and if he'd have to come in and give him a hand. He burst out laughing, shoved the thing into his pocket and hurried back. The drive home was pleasantly uneventful, and in the back seat Paul turned the thing over and over in his hands. His dad eventually noticed. "What's that your fiddling with, Paulie?" "It's ... the end, Dad. The end of the day, I guess." His dad laughed. "Always the poet, Paulie. Catch some sleep back there, why don't you. We won't be home for an hour at least."

That was more than 60 years ago. Today Paul ate breakfast in his living room, perched on the edge of the sofa before the TV. He had a proper dining table, a very nice one too; A nice hardwood dining table in a nice dining room decorated with nice paintings, drapes and carpets his wife had chosen 40 years ago. He just didn't see the point of using an entire eight person table for one old man and his bowl of cornflakes. So these days he took most of his meals in the dusty old green sofa in the living room, in fact he spent most of his waking hours there, watching old shows on the newish TV his daughters had bought him. Today was not going to be like most days though; his oldest daughter Sophia and her two boys would be stopping by. Paul was mostly looking forward to the company, but also preemptively exhausted at the thought of it. He still liked his silences long and deep. Only the business of life had kept him from continuing his father's fishing trips after the old man died.

They'd known it was coming. His mother had passed away a few years before and Paul's father had never really recovered. A man who had always cherished his solitude had descended into a bleak loneliness that no sane man could ever want or endure. Paul had been busy taking care of three children, two dogs and three cats, and had only been able to take time off to take care of the old man through Rachel's willingness to take his burdens on top of her own. So he would stop by his father's house, the house that Paul grew up in, and try to keep the weary man company. But the warm silences they'd shared years ago had turned to painful absences of anything to say, and Paul would try in vain to fill them with something, anything. He'd prattle on about tiny things, how Sophia was doing well in school, that one of the cats had gotten a nasty cough, the dog had chewed through his favorite jacket, ad absurdum, ad nausea. The freezing silence ate the words and spit them back in his face, distorted echoes that made him ashamed to speak such utter drivel. His father would sit in his favorite chair watching cars roll by on the street outside, saying nothing much, only responding when forced to do so. Until he could no longer sit in the chair, until Paul had to sit by his bedside, still spouting the same unnecessary, unwanted rubbish just to make the silence go away. On the final day, his father awoke from his frozen isolation as Paul was in the middle of a long explanation of the difficulties he'd had getting a refund on some leaky rubber boots. "Paulie, do you ever wonder what it looks like? The end, I mean? I hope it's not dark. Your Mom always hated the dark." "I never had to wonder. I found it, remember? We were out fishing." "Yeah. Yeah. You said you found the end of the day. I remember that. That was nice." "Anyway, it wasn't dark. Not really." "Have you still got it? I'd like to see it." "Sure, dad, I... I actually brought it with me today. Don't know why. I'll get it, it's in my coat." Paul's father had held the thing in his hands, staring in fascination. "Not dark at all, is it?" "Not really. It's bigger now, I think. Bigger than the day I found it. It's not just the end of the day anymore." And then, for the first time in months, his dad had looked at Paul Henry and smiled. "Of course not, Paulie. Days only end once, don't they?" They found the old man in his favorite chair the next morning, looking happier in death than he had for the last years of his life. Paul put the end of his childhood back in its cupboard, making sure to hide it behind the biscuit tins so that his own children would not stumble upon it.