by Marco Santos
He shrugs out of his wet coat and drops his keys into the dish, the noise jarring his senses. Stumbling down the stairs his head is spinning from drink, he wipes his eyes, grabs the chair, sits. He flips on the radio, and stares out the window into the night. The shipping forecast. Waves choppy, four to five feet, visibility poor, visibility poor, visibility poor. His shoulders start to shake as the tears flow, and his thoughts turn to her.
Marco Santos is practicing putting words in order, until the day they grow up and move out of the house to start a life of their own.