And when I spin my head around, trying to grasp anything that could wake him up from his painful weariness, it’s his jet-black hair that’s the first thing that meets the eye.

His jet-black curls that will be the only rescue this pathetic and feeble brain of mine could muster up with today. His hair that holds a color that reflects all the gloominess lying underneath it. That could as well be carrying my sorrow. And in many ways actually does.

It’s so dark that I sometimes wonder if the color itself actually wears off on his thoughts. That I sometimes wonder if he wouldn’t feel better with a brighter shade. If his dreams would paint a greater picture for him to see.

”So Afro, when do you have an appointment at the hairdresser, huh?

There I go trying to pull him. And I’m trying so hard that the rope almost slides out of my oh so slippery hands. That’s how bad it was. So terrible but yet with so much heart behind those few words that I hoped could weave in a way too weighty soul. That I childishly enough wished could throw some light into those drained eyes.

He probably heard the despair in my voice. He probably heard how miserable that attempt of mine was but how very lovingly it blew against his left ear. And he saves me from digging a deeper hole inside the one I’m already standing in by letting out his well-known snort that tells me he have accepted the thin line that was far too short to actually reach. Telling me that he swam his way forth and pulled himself in from the slippery water with the help of such a brave but still poor act from me. A snort that at the same time tells me that he appreciated the effort.

“Promise me never to do stand-up comedy, Spence.”

And as I open my mouth with mock offence written all over my face I’m silently thanking him for letting me believe that I’m good for something.