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  • We’re most ourselves when we’re tired.

    A few nights ago Noah, my younger brother of thirteen, asked if he could sleep in my room— asked if I would build a small nest of blankets and pillows on the floor the way I used to and read him something from my big Dorling Kindersley picture book.

    The book is torn form use, my floor space is hardly roomy enough for an outstretched thirteen-year-old boy, but it doesn’t matter.

    I’ve missed this.

    And for a moment, we're like we're supposed to be. He’s my baby brother, cocooned under my daisy blanket. Asleep under my glow in the dark stars.
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