Endless

I

            For God, who even allows me to speak. 

The old wooden rocking chair squeaked as it steadily rocked.

"So, Oliver. You're running away?" It was said as a statement rather than a question.

The boy's cobalt blue eyes flicked up to the sound of the old voice and he answered almost immediately.

"Yep."

"I don't suppose you know exactly where you're going..." the rocking paused "...do you?"

The boy didn't hesitate with his answer "I know where I'm going."

The chair resumed its croaky swing, and no one spoke as a strong fall wind billowed against the house and through the golden wispy blades of grass in the front yard. The grass bowed under the weight of the wind, then gently rose again as it passed.

"What about your family?" the old woman's voice continued.

"Family?" the reply resembled a scoff, like the word itself was an absurd one.

"Yes! Your mother, father, brothers, and sisters."

"I don't have a family," he replied coolly before he sipped his lemonade "don't need one."

"Well, everyone has a family. How else would you be born?"

"I know that. It's just. My family left me I guess, thus, I don't have a family."

The chair stopped its rock for a while. "So you have no one to take care of you?"

The boy almost laughed "No! Why would I? I can take care of myself."

"Well now, I suppose you can, but what about when you were young?"

His reply took longer than before and he hesitated "I don't know...I didn't have anybody." he thought for a moment "Just my councilor I guess — oh — and my social worker. But he's a pain in the neck and he only helps me because he won't get paid if he doesn't."

This time it was the old voice that laughed "Now how do you know that's true?"

Oliver shrugged "I don't know. He's just so cold. And anyone as cold as him has to have money to work with troubled kids of all things."

"There are plenty of jobs that pay good money. Even more money than this social worker of yours makes." She adjusted her blanket.

"So I'm sure money isn't his only motivation for working with troubled kids, as you said. He picked the job, didn't he? Why would he pick a job he knew he'd hate?"

"I don't know. To make people miserable?"

"Wait, a second..." she smiled "...are you the only one who feels this way about him?"

"What?" he asked, a little disheveled "No, everyone does. They're just too afraid to say so themselves."

She rocked the chair again, but slower this time. "What's your social worker's name?"

"Patrick Eyesore."

She snapped her head to him and threw him a look of disbelief, but she couldn't stop the smile that crept its way along her face "Oh, don't go on fooling with an old person, boy. It's not good for us. What's his name, honestly."

Oliver grinned, but he answered honestly the second time. "Patrick McGomery." He reached down to scratch at a mosquito bite.

"Hm. Sounds like a decent fellow." she said to herself "Is it him you're running away from?"