Waiting for our children outside their school I ask this stranger some foolish question thinking my words the kind of thing a man says to another father, believing all fathers’ lives approximate my own.
He replies but I am barely listening. High sea. A squall. An overwhelmed dinghy. Toys, nappies, straggling in its wake. I look past him stupidly. I do not speak.
From where I stand he should have struck me down. Of course he doesn’t, and the school bell rings. Staring through him I search only for my own.
And all our children run into the rain.