“Were this a fiction, I would wax here about how I longed for my spirit-trap throughout that entire week away, how I crept out of our rented cottage in the dead of night to howl my pain to a gibbous moon, confident that my cries would somehow reach my boxed companion back in the city. But life is never that rich nor that tidy. It is a messy, multitudinous thing, rife with calls for the attention of a young boy. And when all is said and done, that is just what I was that summer: a seven-year-old ...boy, a child, one just as susceptible to the temptations of summer afternoon swims and ice cream as you were in your formative years. I make no apologies for this. On the second night of our stay, my father took me down to the pier where a band of teenagers were lighting off fireworks. Watching those tadpoles of sulphurous light squiggling down and dissolving just above the black lake water was miraculous to me. I stood with my hand inside my father’s, my head reclined to drink in all those artificial shooting stars, and I felt right.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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