There was much competition for the sunlight, given the multitude of botanical life, which grew in profusion, even in the very center of the town. Every house had its own garden, even if it was pots on the back steps, or a wizened fruit tree trained to grow along a wall. Window boxes abounded with red and yellow geraniums and trailing vines with variegated leaves that tumbled down from even second story windows to the street. The buildings themselves looked strangely organic- as if they’d grown up there just like the grapevines, which were absolutely everywhere.

The train station was the biggest, and newest, building in town, with an elegant roofline and filigreed carvings adorning it. It had a large clock with ornate hands that, like all the clocks in town, chimed every hour, on the hour. There were several churches distributed throughout the town, all of them old (to varying degrees) and most fantastically decorated. When the bells chimed in unison the air seemed to be almost heavy with the combined noise.

After driving in silence for a time, Jon spoke again. “Y’know, when you were a baby, and you threw tantrums in the car, all I had to do was to turn on the windshield wipers. You would quiet right down, and just watch them. They fascinated you to no end.” He chuckled, but it was more with anxiousness than amusement.

“Stupid reminiscences won’t make me like you.” Andre said sourly, still talking to the window. But he wasn’t crying anymore. Maybe it was the windshield wipers.

Jonathon sighed. “It would be nice if you liked me, but that’s not what I was asking. I was planning on groveling before your feet, then apologizing some more. Then maybe inviting you to my house for thanksgiving?”

“I can’t believe you’re asking me this. For years not a word, not a letter, not a call, then mom dies and suddenly you want us to be all lovey-dovey like nothing ever happened? Like you never left?” He sounded pained.

“Andre, that’s not what I’m saying. I just think that it is high time for us to stop acting like strangers-” He began.

“And whose fault is that? Tell me, do I still disgust you? Or have you worked past the ‘I hate all faggots’ stage?” He finally looked at his father, to see his reaction to the question.

Jon winced. “Yes, I do believe I have worked past the ‘I hate all f-faggots stage’ as you so charmingly put it. And to set the record strai- I mean to get things strai- um… To clear the matter up, I never hated you. Ever. I could never hate you. Please remember that.”

Andre had to laugh. It was the first time he had laughed in over a week, and it felt good. His father trying to find a way to say what he meant without using the word ‘straight’ was a memory that he suspected he would treasure for a long time. Jon looked surprised at the unexpected giggle from his son, and glanced over in confusion.

“He he, it’s just- I’m not allergic to the word faggot. Or straight. You don’t have to dance around the issue. You could though. It’s funny.”

Jon found himself smiling at Andre’s mirth “Alright then, what should I say, oh wise one?”