And now he’ll say some things. Things that lead steadily from one to the next, like beads on a string. The ones he remembers, the ones that light up like firecrackers when it’s time to say them and you’re able to say them. The ones that have to be pulled out, like onions. The ones that have to be said softly and the ones that have to be said little by little. The ones that burn. The ones that have to be said looking at the trees, and the ones that have to be said looking at the grass, the ones that have to be said looking at our hands, one on top of the other, and then looking at me. And I
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