Buckwheat Returns to the Window
The church sat quiet and settled.
He sits near the back.
Not still—
but trying.
The pastor speaks—
steady, measured.
Something about peace.
About rest.
About not carrying everything alone.
He listens—
or tries to.
His eyes shift.
Sideways—
the window.
Red.
Blue.
Gold—
held in the glass.
The room didn’t change.
He did.
A glance.
A stare.
Hands press
into his knees.
A thought—
not fully formed:
move.
Not loud.
Not clear.
Just—
forward.
A BEAT.
His jaw tightens.
His breath comes slow.
The colors don’t move.
The glass doesn’t break.
He exhales.
He prays.
