You're not there (fiction)

There's this kid that pops into and out of his life. And every time the kid shows up he feels the guilt. Feels it because he knows he could do more. Should do more. Should be really sad that the kid's grad social's been cancelled because the kid's aunty spent the money they were saving up for it on something else. But he knows that he really won't make the effort. Even when the kid tells him about the party that'll be at the grandpa's instead. Even when the kid says it'll be a safe party. Even when the kid says that they're hiring people to make sure of it.
    He knows he doesn't have the love. Not the real love. The deep love. This is the "not unless the kid's right there in front of him standing, talking, sweating, trying to explain what's happened, why he'd still like to see him come out to his grandpa's, but probably understands if he doesn't" kind of love. That kind. A cheap convenience-store love. That right time and right place kind of love. The kind of love that does not pass all understanding. The kind of love that is totally justifiable. That love that says, in far too many words: I know this all sucks, eh, so there's not much I can do to make it better, so I'm not going to do much of anything at all. That kind of of love.
   That's the love he's got right now, and he's pretty sure that that's the love that he'll have on the Friday night of the kid's party. The kind of love that'll come to him in fleeting moment as he sits around the table with friends, or out on the yard in the whispering wind, or in the buzz of a mosquito. You're not there, it'll say. You're not there because you've chosen to do something else, and you shouldn't feel bad about that. You shouldn't feel bad at all.
   But he will.

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