The Cherub

The Cherub

by Gillian

Statues are not born. They do not age. You can not love the statue. You can only love the image.

It will never love you back.

One of the only things I possess of a child I can never have is the memory of a statue.

A statue in a warped dream. The cherub from a rooftop, which had a bullet in it's heart. A bullet which I fired at the man who would have been his father.

That memory is as fleeting and intangible as he is. Eventually that will disappear. It will be as if he never existed.