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"Sure, Dad, looks great," I answered with less enthusiasm than my Mum did. I watched as Dad put the key in the lock and the front door creaked open. "Come on, guys, looks great," said Dad excitedly.Mum put her free slim arm around my waist, "Luke, honey, I know you're bombed about not going to California with your mate but your Dad wants to spend time with you and so do I and so does Nathan, don't you Nathan?" she said softly, turning to my baby brother in her arms who just smiled and did a baby gurgle. I sighed heavily, "Sure, Mum," I finally agreed. She kissed me on the cheek and then went into the summer house.I, myself, was about to go in when all of a sudden a cloud of thick mist swept across the sea towards me. All I could see all around me was thick mist. I couldn't see the house, the car, nothing. My heart was pounding like a set of African drums against my chest as I was starting to feel a bit scared. I know I shouldn't because I was a man. A seventeen year old man.. I thought back to the first time we’d exchanged photographs. ‘You have such a cute smile,’ was his first comment, ‘I’m sure if we met, I’d know you anywhere.’ But he wasn’t expecting me and it is always hard to recognise people out of context. I was a face behind a computer, not someone who sat in the same room, listening to a greying folk singer strum his twelve-string guitar. I don’t remember all the songs he sang. I was surprised I knew them well enough to sing along, but then I’d fallen into the habit of playing the CD he sent me on the nights he was away from his computer. It was a comfort to hear his voice when we couldn’t communicate over a screen. He was good. His audience knew him well, appreciating what he played for them. They asked him for special favourites and he obliged, his hands picking the strings of his guitar like a well tuned lover. His hands fascinated me. The fingers were long, blunt ended, his hands large and capable. They moved up and down the frets with.
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