We sat out there in silence for a minute and then Gus said, “I wish we had that swing set sometimes.”
“The one from my backyard?” “Yeah. My nostalgia is so extreme that I am capable of missing a swing my butt never actually touched.”
“Nostalgia is a side effect of cancer,” I told him. “Nah, nostalgia is a side effect of dying,” he answered.
Above us, the wind blew and the branching shadows rearranged themselves on our skin. Gus squeezed my hand. “It is a good life, Hazel Grace.”
We went inside when he needed meds, which were pressed into him along with liquid nutrition through his G-tube,
a bit of plastic that disappeared into his belly. He was quiet for a while, zoned out.
His mom wanted him to take a nap, but he kept shaking his head no when she suggested it,
so we just let him sit there half asleep in the chair for a while.
His parents watched an old video of Gus with his sisters—they were probably my age and Gus was about five.
They were playing basketball in the driveway of a different house, and even though Gus was tiny,
he could dribble like he’d been born doing it, running circles around his sisters as they laughed.
It was the first time I’d even seen him play basketball. “He was good,” I said.
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