Coming Back
He didn’t want to look up. He didn't want to see. Would it still be there like he had left it all those years ago, that world which felt farther to him than when the tower of Babel was built, or when Noah crossed the flood, or when Adam walked with God in the garden? That world that was so dear to his heart that he had buried it deep enough so that it was dead to him. The memories surged inside him and tried to surface, but he desperately pushed them down, and they, denied their freedom, sent shivers down his back. It would be too painful if it wasn’t. No, let it be as it is not. Let it be remembered as it has been forgotten. But then a startling breeze brushed past him, and suddenly a sliver of memory burst through his grasp, dashed up his sinews, and stood triumphantly in the centre of his brain; and before he could detain it, it gave a victorious laugh and exploded. A picture came to him of a little boy running. Running, and running, and running. Shouting at the top of his lungs
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