April 10, 2007:
French fries.
Sweetness of ketchup; brininess of salt. The tongue burns very slightly, in your eagerness.
Muriel enjoys your enjoyment. She makes lunch gladly for you both, because she cares about you, and because she's grateful for the way you try to include her awkward son in your games and adventures.
There's motion in all directions. Motion and noise: laughter, footfalls, the thunder of bowling balls rumbling down waxed wooden alleyways.
Outside your bikes are locked to the lamppost. The sky is impossibly blue and clear, a sky that belongs peculiarly to your childhood home. The breeze is westerly, bearing with it sea tang and distant cries of gulls.
This is where you wish you were. Now and always: just you two, with your bikes and french fries, without defeat, or sadness, or isolation.