![]() ![]() I was touching his arm, so I could feel the warmth, the muscles underneath, the softness of his skin. It was almost as if his skin reflected the lights like carved and polished wood. The lights played over his face, painting colored shadows against his black skin. What were you thinking about so very hard? he asked. The rest of my treasures were scattered to the winds. Now the medals were back in their satin box in a drawer in my dresser. I'd carried them around in a carved wooden box along with the rest of my childhood treasures: colored bird feathers, rocks that sparkled in the sun, the tiny plastic ballerinas that had graced my sixth-birthday cake, a dried bit of lavender, a toy cat with fake jewel eyes, and two silver stars given to my dead father. But when he died, he left them to me in their satin-lined box. I never remembered being particularly proud of the medals, mainly because my father never seemed to care about them. My father had gotten two silver stars in the war. I realized that except for the small knot that captured the front pieces of his hair, the rest of his hair was spilling out underneath the cloak, loose. The long feathers brushed his neck, mingling with the spill of black hair that was only partially trapped down the back of the cloak. What of him? Doyle turned his head to look at me as we walked. He let the cloak slide off his shoulders, spilling it over one arm. And now it is quiet, almost deserted.Įasily done, he said, and undid the cloak at his neck. ![]()
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