Escape
He sat on the stool by the front yard; his hands, so clumsy, had already overtaken us. “Someday they will demolish the house,” he says to me “and they’ll discover it.”
And every so often, at the far end of the room, someone wrapped a bed-sheet around himself; it was the time he escaped until the bed sheet fell empty on the floor, and we had a friend forever. In the stations, the immigrants were lined up and, hiding inside their their overcoats, they waited for the voyage like a dog on its deathbed.
And uncle Elias, our rich relative, years after his death, still stood on the sidewalk, however, he didn’t turn to look at us. “Uncle,” I said, “Since you knew, why did you come back?” “I can’t fall asleep,” he says to me, “I still have to lose some more.”
I tried to leave, but I met the deaf boy on the side street; he was leaning on the wall, and he was crying, and now there was a small lit chapel on the wall while snow fell outside, and passersby drowned in their words.

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