The last time he spoke to me was Easter Sunday. I knew the day because a man in robes was preaching behind a slow rising sun on my little television. The sun had just started rising, bathing him in a divine glow he didn’t deserve. We were in my old bedroom from when I was a kid; my parents couldn’t stand us living on the street any longer. The room stayed as I had left it, with this ancient little television that had a picture of me from ten years ago sitting on it. I was smiling in my soccer uniform, holding the ball at my knee, all superimposed against a flash of lightning.
By Robert Hyers.

