Peter came downstairs for breakfast on Saturday, sleepy, untalkative. His mother flipped pancakes on the stove. His father sat, reading a weekly status update from the office.
“Uncle Geoff died last night. I know because I had a dream about it.” Father looked up from the WSU at his wife.
“Peter, that’s an awful thing to say about your uncle. Don’t be rude at the breakfast table,” said Mother.
“I’m not being rude; I’m just saying what I had a dream about.”
“Well it’s morbid, Pete,” his father said sternly.
“I’m not trying to be murbid.”
“Morbid.”
“Morbid. Kinda rhymes with porridge.” Peter looked at his father and his father looked back silently. Man, that kid’s all kinds of messed up.
The phone rang. Mother grabbed the receiver and held it to her ear, twisting the cord around her hand. She nodded silently.
“Who is it, honey?”
“My brother. He says Aunt Georgiana passed away last night.”
“Oh, lord.”
Peter looked displeased. Not displeased, more confused.
“Peter, why are you making that face? Is it because you dream-murdered your aunt?”
“I just thought that I had a dream about Uncle Geoff, not Aunt Georgiana. Kinda weird, huh?”
“Yeah, pretty weird, son. Just - next time let’s try to be a little more accurate.”
“It’s not my fault, Dad.”
“Jesus, Dan, what did you just say to Peter?”
“It was a joke! A little joke.”
“Are you trying to blame this on your son?”
“No. And I think it’s a bit ridiculous of you to try and draw that insinuation out of a little comment. That isn’t what I was implying at all. I’m pretty sure it isn’t Peter’s fault that his Aunt is dead.”
She hung up the phone and served breakfast.
Three hours later the phone rang again.
“Well, that’s odd…” said Mother.
“What is it?”
“Apparently, Aunt Georgiana woke up suddenly in the back of her ambulance. She must have been in some kind of semi-coma. Anyway, she’s fine. But Geoff was sitting next to her when it happened, and a blood vessel popped in her brain.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
Just then, Peter walked in from the television room.
“Peter, looks like you were right on the money. Good work, son.”
They high-fived and had a great Saturday.

i won’t ever fail you

promises on the city lights

distant wishing dusts

tear myself apart

experimentally

for the sake of art

cursed with farewells

and no proper start

this tiny dot of a being

insistently called i

dragging along the shore

games of aim searching

at every footstep set

crushing pavements

resenting, revenging

in spite of a heart of gold

what for?