“We’ve been clearing out Dad’s stuff,” he said, looking directly at me and keeping his voice even, as though he was telling himself to be brave.
“This isn’t much, but we wondered if you might want it, as a keepsake?
I remember Raymond saying how much you’d admired it, after that time you helped Dad...
The words snagged in his throat and he trailed off. I unwrapped the parcel carefully.
It was the beautiful red sweater, the one Sammy had been wearing on the day Raymond and I found him in the street.
I could smell it, still faintly scented by its wearer with apples and whiskey and love,
and I squeezed it tight, feeling the softness and the warmth against my palms, the gentle, exuberant Sammyness of it.
Keith had gone to the window and was staring out at the street, an action I completely understood.
When you’re struggling hard to manage your own emotions, it becomes unbearable to have to witness other people’s, to have to try and manage theirs too.
He couldn’t deal with my tears. I remember, I remember. “Thank you,” I said. He nodded, his back still turned.
Everything was there, obvious to us both, but it all remained unsaid. Sometimes that was best.
After he’d gone, I put the sweater on. It was far too big, of course, but that made it even better, with more of it to go around me, anytime I needed it.
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