"A few light taps on the pane made him turn to the window." As he furtively scanned the snow covered landscape something moved gently inside him. A half smile broke the stonework of his face and he remembered the taste of smoke from the fire and the face of Avi, now light, now dark, above the licking flames. It had begun to snow again. Yes, the newspapers were right, snow was general all over Nashville.

It fell on every part of the brown turf of the Hillsboro football field where once he and the rest of us created out manifestos of glory. There we refined the game of paper football and nothing we planned in out lamb white days that time would take us, up to that crushing distance that is silence. Now the snow lay thickly drifted on the bleachers and benches where those heroes of a lesser game had awaited the command of their Antioch bred leader.

He returned to the sounds of the room around him and he saw the reflections on the pane before the falling slow of the people behind him. Their mouths were detached from their voices and their movements were a puppet show that played itself out in the bland and incoherent world that was without its Christ. Avi.

Avi: it has been two years since last I knew where you had gone or what had become of you. Why do you abandon me to this slow death, drifting into a fantasy world where I can only imagine what you are seeing, what you believe now, and who you have become. I imagine you standing in a clearing and beckoning me to follow, but I cannot see your face, not now, oh not ever; you will never tell me who I am.

I lay this humble plea before you. Give us succor. Give us some clue of what has become of you; that I may sleep at night and know that I tread not in an Avi-less world.
 

A dark night descended upon our lives the moment he left us. The first hard freeze of that year brought his dissapearance, and with him he took all of our  merriment and mirth.

Men would speak of him in beautiful verses, children would call his name as they scampered through the empty streets of the belmont neighborhood that he once called home. Their verses and cries always carried a flavor of dysphoria, as they somehow knew he would never return.

Still the men would wonder - why had Avi left them in solitude, with nothing more than their own trepidation and misery to keep them company.

How are David and I supposed to live? Are we supposed to be content with this tattered senior picture, where you stand there, like a golden god? This is all we have left of you.

Avi, where have you gone? Why have you left us here in this world of shit? Why did you run away, and take with you all of the spite and violent fury that we all cherished so dearly? I have heard rumours about you- rumours about your whereabouts, but I refuse to believe them. I'd rather immortalize you in my mind as what you were: wall-ball champion. Front step historian and philosopher. And, most importantly, thief of paper mache beavers.

Please, av, come home to us. Just tell us where you are.