13

Mother . . .

The word breathed in his mind, filled it, flooded it, owned it.

Not his mother, not anyone’s mother, just an idea of mother. And he wanted her.

She was a glowing speck in his vision, dead ahead, but far ahead, miles ahead.

He came to a wall. He could see the bright mother speck against the bricks. He turned and walked along until he cleared the wall, then he turned and faced the speck again. He continued his journey toward it . . . toward her.

For he must reach her. Nothing else mattered. His wants, his needs, his dreams, none of that mattered. Not even his name mattered.

His name . . . he was pretty sure it was “Darryl.” He’d heard people say that word to him. He remembered being sick and wanting a cure, but the memory of just what kind of sickness he’d had was lost to him now.

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore but Mother. He had to find her, embrace her, clutch her to him.

And then he would be well. Then he would be clean and whole, and all the world would be renewed.

He picked up speed.

I’m coming, Mother.