Goodbye, my child

Hello and goodbye.

Willard brushes his forefinger against the dust as though it could speak back to his lonely lips. Darkness sketches the corners of the room making then look illusional. Piles of books beckoning to be read lay there collecting the dust Willard sends up. Only for it to fall again, upon the covers. Nothing fills the doorways anymore except for his own lithe figure. The figure that used to have another under its chin. Remnants of the shattered memories disillusions him, imprinting his younger flesh and skin on his eyes. Like floaters after staring at a lightbulb for too long.
"Goodbye, my child." Willard whispers as he directs his pining heart to the front door in the strong faith that his lost son will return. He must return, surely. Beyond the door, it is a cold and hostile world where work is scarce. So, Williard makes his way to the front garden, which comprises of a long, winding drive through a tidy row of trees at the end of the gravel. The trees accompany the gate where his son walked through and did so alone. Grassy scent fills the afternoon air and this reminds Willard that he is alive, that he has a beautiful country house with ornaments of the world. But nothing will ever take the place of the precious sight of his face in younger skin, running across the grass and done the driveway, laughing and beaming. Willard has faith that his son will return, arms open. After all, no human knows his son better than him. In hope and faith, he sits in the rocking chair. He waits with an ever softly spoken prayer;

"Bring him home."