We listened so carefully to what they gave us when they saw a ship, a lock, a mess of paint. When one boy mumbled what sounded like “war” we rounded on the possibility; a bit like hungry predators, a bit like starved prisoners.
“War.” Suddenly there was possibility in the room. What did you mean? Why did you say this when you looked at that?
It felt like possibility entered the room. The walls and table and deep-laid groove of the usual was suddenly about to fall away for a thought potentially as big as wars to lay itself over the humdrum.
But he backed away. In truth, I think he meant something else. He looked sheepish, at the effect he had caused. In his head, war is probably reality. This room and us a bit of shadow puppetry. Why say it?
If anything, I am alert to the reasons again. How the stale air in a room can become high. That in the smoky thoughts of anyone, may berry a word that is enough.