Kafiris | Loss

Curtains close. Eyes are pinched open. He leans over to reach for his absent leg. She rests beside his bed. Face rippling against the palm of her hand. Mum, I won’t be able to go to the dance now, will I? Barely in his twenties, this young man contemplates the future. Will she love me less now? Who? Isabella. Will she love me less? Son, you will always be the man she shared her first dance with. But not the last, mum. Not the last.