PERSPEX
Excerpts:
He takes an inward breath, about to call her name, and tell her he’s back.
But—
Stops himself.
And there’s a moment held as he remembers… slowly.
He remembers the day he first noticed the mantlepiece clock was missing its minute hand.
He’d called the little boy over.
They’d talked about other things, until Charlie had quietly confessed.
He’d been curious about how the clock worked.
When he was putting the pieces back together again, he’d lost the minute hand.
But the rest of it was fine, he said.
So Grandpa said well done.
And after that, they’d just made do without the minutes.
When he knew, he knew.
If you asked him how he knew, he said things like
“… well, it’s obvious when you see it.”
If you asked him to explain how it worked, sometimes he’d point to the letters that became an anagram.
He tried to explain, not with words.
Gestures. Head positions.
Shapes he made with his face — pursed lips, wrinkled nose.
Extending into hand movements.
A twirling hand. Upturned palms. Motions.
But no words.