Gerald. My Gerald, my boy.
I seem to wake on this snowy night, and, my boy, my little boy, you are deeply asleep, but you float in my room. You are a balloon boy on a string, and, bumbling against the ceiling, you drift toward my open window….why? why? did I leave it so?
I grab onto your string….ah! my little boy!…..but you are taken fast out into the night.
I climb out quickly, something is tugging you away, away. I hold fast onto your lifeline, and run stumbling out into the cold white.
A seething throng, out of the birch forest, all pale, all living death, all grasping with bony hands, all floating, has come to take you.
They pull, they pull, they sighingly say you belong with them.
Gerald, your eyes open and you are in fear, my son.
How comes this visitation? What have I done?
My dear dear boy. My life.
Art by Michael MacRae