Spilt Milk
Devin had rituals, you see. To ward off bees, to distract Thomas, to bring sun. He grew up in a Catholic home; perhaps this obsession with rituals is not so hard to understand then. But it was not Hail Mary’s that Devin said. It was not the Lord’s Prayer. Devin repeated maxims he had read in a book called ‘Small lives, Big Lives’ found in a garbage near his house. Devin and I grew up in Scarlton, an area that smelled of rotted wet wood and grey smoke. There was row after row of buildings, houses, shops, and somehow they all looked the same: blackened, with holes in likely places, and window panes missing, or filled with shattered glass. I met him from the other side of a broken window pane, as he touched with one dirt stained hand each of the four corners in turn, saying, “Don’t cry over spilt milk, don’t cry over spilt milk, don’t cry over spilt milk.” I didn’t even have to ask. “I’m keeping Thomas away.” Thomas. The boy who has my lunchbox, who put the tear in my dre...