"But he is my brother, I said.

"I know," Murray said. "So you will be sad."

In my mind, I saw Peter at the age of eight again. His golden curls are in a lovely ball. We are in the yard next door.

When the child wrestled, mud and grass stained our knees through jeans; I recall him singing in the mirror and holding a comb as a pawn.

Microphone; I still remember hiding in the attic cabin, testing our parents' ability and seeing if we could find us for supper.

rice.

Then he appeared as an adult, dragging his weak body away from his relatives, and chemotherapy made him skinny.

Murray, I asked, why doesn't he want to see me? "