My cousin and I had many things in common. The same furrowed brow, the same short temper, charming gummy smile, and aversion to touch. And in all of these things I could finally see the difference between what is the blood and what is learned. I knew my cousin had walked the same stairs, he had smelled the oil and touched the brushes, and now we both sat on an antique carpet, cursing the same thing the painter stole from us. I looked up at the wall, at the little naked child made of tiny tiny dots still held captive behind a glass frame on my aunt’s wall, and I wondered what the painter had
...more
