Accidentally I saw my son. I passed his room and his door was nearly closed, only a narrow split between the door and doorpost. I glanced in, the way I usually do, to see if he's OK, in was the middle of the day, and there I saw him, in his bed, his thin face white and tensed, skin tight against the chick bones and chin, my laptop leaning against his knees, under the blue blanket that my mother knitted for him, his eyes closed, his lips thin, his hand, I suppose it was his hand, moving to the old rhythm, up and down under the blanket.
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November 2019
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