Here’s the thing about losing a brother at age ten: you wobble atop that precarious point, the threshold of lasting memory, when every moment could fall to either side—into the slim collection of images that will one day make up your past, or into the far more extensive chasm of the forgotten, of moments too ordinary or too shameful or too terrifying to keep forever. You might live every moment, but they don’t stay. Not all of them. Most disappear, sucked into that yawning abyss of memory. And those that do remain will be nothing but snippets. Hazy photographs. Paper memories to which you’ll
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