My three-year-old nephew plays on the floor. “I’ve been feeling sad”, you say, “because I won’t see him grow up”.
At the time, I thought you were just experiencing a bout of the morbid thoughts that had always occasionally plagued you, but later, I wondered if you already knew.
My nephew is eleven now. The rope binding you to us unspools a little more every year. Distance grows.
Two homes that you never entered.
Two jobs that you never heard about.
My grey hair, which you will never see.
I heard about a woman who spent thousands of pounds to save the life of a dog her late husband had loved.
Your cat died a few months ago. The last pet we will ever share with you.
My nephew reads Harry Potter and loves riding his bike. “The worst thing”, my sister says, “is that he doesn’t remember Dad”.