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  • I can’t remember the last time my Deda and I had spent an hour alone with each other, let alone an entire night.

    It must have been six or seven years ago but here we were, sitting across from one another at the kitchen table, eating hardboiled eggs. I acknowledge the dripping of the sink and the soft scrapes of our forks against the yolk; they are the only present sounds which the air promptly swallows up. Behind my grandfather is a large window, where off in the distance I see my old elementary school sitting comfortably on the corner of West 12th street. A strip of lavender curls across the Verrazano Bridge to the west of us, the only reminder that there had been a particularly breathtaking sunset tonight.

    When I finish my egg and sweep up toast crumbs, I look up at my grandfather. Though I’ve been avoiding his eyes, a fierce sort of lightning blue that only seems to brighten with age, it seems he has been watching me for a while. He smiles right then, and it’s the most genuine smile I’ve seen from any person in months.

    Something at the back of my throat swells, I wash it down with black tea.
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