You take a moment to look at him then. He’s a little older now, not just in his face but in his spirit. You’re his youngest son and it feels like the gap between you grows wider every day. Sometimes, you see a sheen on his eyes like a glimmer, a sad glint, his attention elsewhere. You’ve never seen him cry, but in those moments he looks close. Whenever you go to ask what fragment has bled into his day, what is haunting him, he waves a hand, pushes any notion of closeness away. Despite this, you open your mouth to ask, ‘How could I forget you?’ when your mum walks in, all youth and glint and
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