We sit there quietly, listening to birdsong and wind in the leaves. Suddenly I am flooded with déjà vu. I have been here before. Sitting on this same log. But with Nic. More than a decade ago. My heart pumps and my eyes water. Nic climbed this tree. Climbing, he called to me: “Dad, look at me! I’m way up here!” He absentmindedly sang: “All mimsy were the borogoves, and the mome raths outgrabe.” He climbed higher up and then began to shimmy out onto a thick branch that reached over the meadow. “Look at me, Dad! Look at me!” “I see you.” “I’m up in the sky.” “Fantastic.” “I’m higher than the
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