and he’d try to hug me but I’d squirm out from his arms because even then sweat freaked me out.
Or I’d be in my room, lying on my stomach, reading a book, and I’d look over at the closed door and imagine him opening it,
and then he would be in the room with me, and I’d be looking up at him as he knelt down to kiss the top of my head.
And then it became harder to summon him, to smell his smell, to feel him lifting me up.
My father died suddenly, but also across the years. He was still dying, really—which meant I guess that he was still living, too.
People always talk like there’s a bright line between imagination and memory, but there isn’t, at least not for me.
I remember what I’ve imagined and imagine what I remember. I finally texted Davis just after noon: We need to talk.
Can you come over to my house today? He replied, Nobody’s here to look after Noah.
Can you come over here? I need to talk to you alone, I wrote. I wanted Davis to have the choice whether or not to tell his brother.
I can be there at five thirty. Thanks. See you then. The day moved agonizingly slowly.
I tried reading, texting Daisy, and watching TV, but nothing would make the time speed up.
I wasn’t sure whether life would be better frozen in this moment, or on the other side of the moment that was coming.
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