Where it leads

The boy is born with a hole in his head. Between wide-eyed baby blues, only a cavernous black. For years, doctors shone torches, scientists ordered scans, the child sitting patiently throughout, occasionally lifting his palm from his forehead with a tiny suction-cup pop. But, eventually, for safety, the hole’s sealed shut. And, in time, the man—weighed down, closed off—will wonder where it might’ve led. If a tattooist had inked wildflowers, escaping its dark gap. If new friends had gasped, ‘Dude, that’s so freakin’ rad.’ If a lover, entwined in bedsheets, had leaned in; listened to its hidden sound.