I see him at twenty-two bent down to my eight-year-old height while I’m crying about Mom screaming an ear-splitting scream in the bedroom. She was hallucinating. Hadn’t slept in days. She sounded like she was being murdered. “She’s fine,” he said. “She’s okay, buddy. Hey, look at me. Don’t cry.” He wiped my tears. “Are you a strong boy? Huh? Don’t cry. You’re a Donnelly. You remember that.” He messed my hair and smiled, one that faded of light the older I grew. “Let’s go get ice cream.” He never took me to get ice cream. He got distracted at a cousin’s place and he accidentally left me there
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