Farvel, Min Søn

Enok sat in the kitchen as his mother wrapped the bandage around his hand, wincing a bit as she cinched it tight.

“Sorry,” she said. “We don’t want it bleeding through on the boat.”

“Was that ceremony really necessary, Mother? I know it’s tradition and all, but I’m only going to Århus. It’s not like I’m–”

“Enough,” said his father from the living room. “I explained to you the need. It is part of who we are. Who you are.” He ruffled his son’s hair. “And you won’t soon forget it.”

“I know, I know,” said Enok. “Every time I see the scar. You’ve said.”

“Because it’s true,” said his mother, tying it off. “There. You can take it off in a couple of days, but until then keep it dry.”

Enok looked at his suitcase by the door. So much superstition here. He was glad to be leaving this place.



What Pegman Saw