Carrier of the dead (freewrite)

The voices told him to stop what he was doing. The bones in his bag rattled. It was going to rain, soon, he must find shelter now.
He leans into the window, trying to catch a glimpse of the one he is looking for. Clunk, the bones crunch together louder, now. There's storm a-coming, and he should find shelter. Stay away from high places and find shelter, he thinks. His mother always told him that. Even as a child, he would spend most of his time outdoors. He didn't want to be inside when his father got home. His mother didn't want to be there, either, but she didn't have a choice.
So, she did what she could and she sent her son outside, to climb through the trees and hang around the houses of friends, with happier families. He did what he could.
Roxanne never told her son to come home, in case of storms, because she knew he wouldn't find any shelter there and it broke her heart. Tiny piece by tiny piece. But Roxanne was dead now, and his father was dead also, and that's all there was to it.
As the noise grew louder in his head, he looked up to the clouds. Heavy with rain, he thought. He wished so much he wouldn't have to go. He'd like to remain at the window a little more, to see the one he waited for, maybe just once. Even if only in passing.

It had been so long since their last encounter. The bones warned the man to get away from the window while he still could and he thought he might've found asylum inside the house, once. But not anymore.
He touched his hand to the window, pushing against it, pushing against time itself.
Go now, go now, go, go go. If you stand you'll drown and if you drown, you'll die. And all that will be left of you will be a bag of bones, like the one you carry on your back.
His palm left a print on the glass and he hoped maybe the print would still be there later, enough for it to be seen.
And he thought so many thoughts, that second. He would've liked to inscribe in that handprint all the things left unsaid and if there was only so much room, he would've liked his son to know that he cared.
So very much about him. And about his mother.
The man swung the bag around to the front and looked around it, picking at the bones. Overhead, the clouds grumbled, angry, menacing.
There is storm a-coming.
And soon.
He pushed around in his bag, trying not to make too much noise. If she heard noise, she might come outside and find him. She might banish him before he found what he was looking for.
He saw the pale fingers of lightning flash on the sidewalk and sure enough, he heard the roar of thunder a few seconds later, strong and unforgiving. It was going to be a bad one, he knew.
But he found it, at last. The man took the bear out of the bag and placed it on the window-sill. It was the third birthday he missed, but every year, he'd brought a present and left it on the window.
The first year, he'd showed up at the door, and pleaded with Catherine to let him see their son, just for five minutes, just to give the boy a present for his fifth birthday. She'd kicked him out, throwing the little truck after him, calling him names. It was a nasty business. So, the man had picked up the truck and put it on the window-sill, for his son to find, hopefully.
He had no way of knowing if his son ever found his gifts, but he could hope. He'd entrusted them to the window and hoped that maybe he'd seen them that maybe his son knew that his daddy still loved him. More than anything on this earth.

But it had been different before, because there had been no storm, no danger coming. If he left the toy on the window, it might be blown away by the wind and he might never find it. The man's heart shrunk a little, thinking of his son waiting for this, secretly hoping he'd find another present this year, secretly hoping they were from his father. What would he think if he didn't find any this year?
The man couldn't risk that, so he rapped on the window, twice. Not enough for his ex-wife to have heard, he prayed. He cursed the clouds and ran to the nearest tree.
He hid, eyeing the lone teddy. He felt drops of water hit his unshaven cheeks. They would soon get into his bag, they would get to his bones, to his things. The voices in his head were roaring, now. He had to leave! He had to find shelter, or it would be too late.
The window opened and a little face peered out. The man had to bite on his lips, so as not to scream, he'd grown so much. He was so much bigger than the last time. His boy, his treasure. It sunk in again, how much he'd lost and for a second, the voices were dead-quiet.
He wished he could run to the window, grab the boy in his arms and run for it. But he couldn't and it was ripping his heart apart. He watched, as the little boy took the teddy in his arms, examining it. He checked it on all sides, and the man wished he'd left some sort of note.
Daddy loves you. Daddy will always love you.
Before he could say anything, the boy looked up at the sky and closed the window.
It didn't matter, he had the teddy now, he knew, deep down, he must've known that it was from his father.
Just as the window closed, the clouds opened and heavy rain hit the man's face and arms like a whip, flagellating him. He stepped out from under the tree and into the storm. His head was quiet now and so were the voices.
I love you, he whispered.
To the rain.

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