“It will only last till fall.”
“In all probability,” Tad smiled, “so would I.”
Seth craned his neck toward the canopy, so tears stream into his hair and not onto his cheeks, where Tad may see them.
Gone was the sturdy tarp of their childhood gazebo. Stripped away by time, and the remains plucked off by winter’s hurricane.
“The trees protect it still,” Tad offered gently. “The roof we have no longer hides the sky.”
Until the rain, Seth thought, but nodded. The light was soft. Perhaps the inevitable will be, too.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt © Lisa Fox
Na'ama Yehuda 
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