Aperture

by Wack

I once ran into Kellan Hudson buying frozen cod for his two sons. It was Jarrad or it was Isaiah, I don't know which, who ran to my shopping cart, jumping up and down as if he were gawking at brand new presents under the tree. He called me uncle. Kellan asked me to christen them both, after all. If I had not given him a roof and a couch to sleep on 16 years ago, maybe things would be entirely different. We kept in touch, here and there. Kellan had moved to Plano long ago once his spirits were up. His fortunes changed to a lighter shade of grey. He found a wife there. Of course, knowing her, that wasn't meant to last.

The boys were gleeful. Kellan refused to eat just for them to have enough food to go to sleep without hurting. But there was hope in their eyes, and that was enough. I envy them. How could they know the reasons for a misfortune they cannot comprehend? For every American compromised so much to give their loved ones more than they can afford. We never had a choice in the matter, it was just another obligation imposed on us. At the very least we found kinship in the uncertainty. Noone knew how long these hardships would last. Alas, we chose to remain, hoping that it couldn’t get any worse.

We spoke of our work, and our family lives, Kellan and I. His boys were begging to come over and visit, and so was mine. Alex had wanted them to come over for the longest time, since it had been about a year since they had their last play date. Just as he would do anything for his sons, I would do anything for my Al. He and his boys said their goodbyes, Alex was happy, and the sun set the exact same position as it did yesterday.

Al and I were out in the back. Pushed him on the swing set I built for him. Then it happened. Lights zipping through suburban skies. Sounds echoing to the tune of mosquitoes or summer cicadas. We sat on the grass looking at the “spaceships” I convinced him were visiting us. “They’re aliens,” I told my boy in jest. “They’re not gonna give you the toy you asked Santa for if you keep acting up.” The skies were gorgeous to him. Almost like if these northern lights in this side of the lone star were sent here just for him.

Then the skies turned to smoke, as an orange glow was contaminating the air itself. Then there was the screaming. An insurmountable chorus of anguish that I cannot even explain how. Not to my son, and certainly not to myself. Fire and brimstone overtook Chaparral Park as if it were fields of wheat.

1476. 1476 days have come and gone. 1476 days since I last held my boy in my arms. 1476 days since Kellan and my godchildren were never heard from again. As if time itself were averting its gaze from its own misdeeds. Ignoring all culpability and sitting idly. Unbothered. As if its own horrible machinations were but a circus of violence for its own amusement.

They will not stop until we, undesirables, dissipate into ash and waste. Until all utility we serve has extended its last efforts. We are, and always have been numbers to them.

To them, an empty house is easier to clean.