Peter was at the age of nine when his difference from others was beginning to show up. He had wide black eyes that express a natural astonishment; they were glistering all the time. His petite figure spoke his frality, as if it was alarming others not squash him.
When friends played, Peter was always found alone, tense, watching around as if danger was lurking, or as if knowing that he's not far from home would save him from the unknown. One can't say that this boy was introvert or unsociable, because he was not. But something inside him was growing up, something sore. It never stopped, or died. It just slept, sometimes. It is improtant to mention that that was not the situation before his father died.
Today was the first anniversary of his father's death. Shelton, Peter's mother, was afraid to believe her husband had gone. She had kept all his clothes ironed, neatly placed in his closet, as if he would come back one day. Sometimes, she pretended she had sent him messages. And on his anniversary; she dared not visit his grave.
Peter was way younger than the meaning of death. He rarely heard his mother talking about his father. She preferred to keep his presence in her thought rather than conversations which would lead definitely to the truth that her husband was dead.