by Francesca Kazan
We look in so many ways for those we lose. At first, the way everyone does: suddenly thinking we see them in the empty street, passing us on the downward escalator in the tube, or seeing a flash of them in another’s body, a fleeting expression in a face. This occurs with less and less frequency. These days, I find my brother in dreams: he appears nearly always as a child, and I as I am now, a woman in her forties. Perhaps it is he who finds me.
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