Then—still with her arms locked around me—she lays her head back, for which I am grateful. This way she cannot see how I weep, she cannot suspect that the pillow under my chin is turning soggy. Oh damn. I cannot stop these tears.
Trapped here in her embrace, I am mourning something I cannot snatch back from the hand of time. Something that by some spell used to let me feel invincible. I never thought I would lose it.
Youth.
How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me?
The first ray of sun has just come in through the window, and it reaches in over her, over me. It is fingering the wall, a touch here, a touch there, lifting the darkness spot by spot until—coming to touch the tip of my sword—it seems to catch fire.
I remember that day, when I faced my first enemy and released him of his life and his weapon. I am, am I not, the slayer of Goliath. This blade of his has been hanging here over my head for ages. And now, in a flash—in the blinding light reflected back from the steely surface—I can spot myself in it.
Is it me, really? Who is this decrepit creature, clinging to the corner of a blanket to wipe his face, curled here in a fetal position, with his back to a faceless girl?
Come morning I should ask her name. Joav might have told me, but at this moment I cannot bring myself to remember it. Remembering has become too much of an effort, especially when it comes to the present.
There is only one thing I seem to know: her future. She is, and may always remain, untouched.
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Grady Harp, Hall of Fame reviewer
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