Starving

He saw a stela upon the hill. He was a boy with tousled hair. He planned to double back to the hotel. A frieze was worn around his body. He knew that people here would try to bamboozle him if they spotted him alone in this place downhill. Once, he remembered, his father had picked an oyster from shoal of a river and gave it to him. Suddenly, he saw a shrivelled old man approaching towards him. Obviously no teleology of the world could assure him why the man was coming near him at this strange hour in this stranger place. His memory tried to rewind once again to that river bank with his father. Submersed in shallow water, his feet had been drenching. He had at first thought not to give the game away to his mother, yet he could not help his excitement of his little exploration. Later on that day, having got back to their hotel room, he had a heart to heart talk with his beautiful mother; perhaps, that was the last time, they had a talk per se. But his father had fallen short of bringing life back to their starving conjugality. She was an open book, he knew, towards not only others, but herself as well. She loved to deal with life by leaps and bounds.