The first time, the first time— the first time he saw me. The first time he kissed the top of my head. The first time I fell asleep in his arms. The first time I walked towards him. Arms stretched out. The first time I said his name. The first time he said mine. “Biz.” Laughter, toddle feet, sand and sun through leaves. “Biz.” Ice cream on chins, rainbow lorikeets. “I love you,” says Dad. He’s faint now. He’s talked for hours. He’s laid my stonework down. It’s hard to see him; he’s fading out. Biz, he says. I love you.
