He’s crying, and it’s almost soundless except for the body motion of it, hiccuping heaves and tears moistening the flow of air. I hold him as he weeps, my own eyes dry but my body heaving in time to his, its own sort of sobbing, so ferocious that it skips tears and heads right into convulsions. We slump together to the floor, onto our sides. I’m only just able to breathe against him. His body lifts away, and I assume it’s because he’s making space for me.
