I’ve got no idea how to write this story. How to explain with any semblance of clarity the world that I experienced, that I can only recall now as a fragment, as if it were only a dream.
I sat, bolt upright in bed, in the middle of the night. I turned to my wife, awake too, startled and concerned and said: “A boy and his snail”, before collapsing back onto the bed as though my life had been sucked out of me.
“A boy and his snail.” That’s all I can remember now, alongside the verdant greens, sunflower yellows and flaming fire-truck reds. A small clearing in a many-pillared tropical rainforest, shrieks emanating from the dense, echoing cathedral of the trees. An even smaller boy, arm draped over a turquoise shell, leaning against his snail. How I knew it was his is beyond me, but his it was.
Their world seemed perfect.
A boy and his snail.