When she didn’t answer, Miguel figured she didn’t know.
“Why is she crying,” he thought, not understanding his speaking made her happy.
He also didn’t understand that it had been a fight, this burning. Had he been older, learned to watch the television news, he’d of known what was twisting in his singular mind.
Each side, correct, but they couldn’t see the actual depth of their arguments. The outcome was the same and the outcome was as deadly as either.
A ball of flame was the spinning image in Miguel’s head and all-sides would learn that tomorrow was too late.
The Old Blog in the Desert 
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