The Years 1994 — Reeling In

Daniel almost lied. Then he shook his head. “No. It’s not there.”

The sprinkler outside kept turning. A jet of water arced over the petunias, catching the late sun, making a brief, failed rainbow. reeling in the years 1994

At the hospital, the air smelled of floor wax and dread. Tom lay in a bed with rails, looking smaller than Daniel remembered. An IV dripped into his arm. His eyes were open, but they were watching something far away—maybe 1972, maybe last week, maybe the frozen moment between one guitar chord and the next. Daniel almost lied

His father smiled—a small, tired thing. “It never is. That’s the trick. You think if you look close enough, you’ll catch the moment it all made sense. But it’s not in the frame. It’s in between. The parts they cut out.” It’s not there

“Hey,” Daniel said, sitting in the plastic chair beside the bed.

Tom closed his eyes. “No,” he whispered. “Not anymore. I think I finally stopped.”