Even as a youngling, Mamma took me to see the island man.
He stands on the distant rock, spends all day shouting at the crowd. No-one can hear the words. Next sun-up, he’s gone. Him and his island.
Mamma said he spoke the meaning of life. That was before she got brainsick and died. Her body still moved, still spoke, but Mamma was gone.
I tried really hard to hear that year. Mamma was my meaning, and I’d lost her.
I heard nothing. But even if you don’t know the meaning, you can know one exists. For now, that’s enough.
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There’s another side to this story, and it’ll go up on Friday.
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