Set the controls

While my clothes, sheets and towels were spinning in the dryers, I walked out behind the laundromat to a picnic table on the edge of an overgrown field. The sun was strong and high and the afternoon was hot enough to make you sweat a little just sitting there. 

I unbuttoned my shirt, tipped my head back, and pointed my pallor toward the sun. It shone down red and hostile against my eyelids. A silent simmering anger seemingly building now at an increasing rate. 

Mister Sun, Sun, Mister Golden Sun, please shine down on me...

We sang that song in safety and happiness to them while they were babies and we played at being adults. But I feel its light and heat on my skin with a sort of creeping dread now. It's become difficult to imagine a future under this sun that's something other than char and smoke.