A Stream of Short Stories

The sounds of the bats in the ceiling came back months later, maybe the baby's family, in the walls, in the crawl spaces, ones we couldn't save but still heard the knocking and the crying.

I am not always awake to the world, not always thinking about the big things. Today it is just the spoon of sugar in my coffee, the one leaf unfurled, first of the green on the tree outside my bedroom window, a sock without a mate stuck under the covers at the foot of the bed.