Papa sat with me tonight. He brought the accordion down and sat close to where Max used to sit. I often look at his fingers and face when he plays. the accordion breathes. There are lines on his cheeks. They look drawn on, and for some reason, when I see them, I want to cry. It is not for any sadness or pride. I just like the way they move and change. Sometimes I think my papa is an accordion. When he looks at me and smiles and breathes, I hear the notes.
He does something to me, that boy. Every time. It’s his only detriment. He steps on my heart. He makes me cry.
Imagine smiling after a slap in the face. Then think of doing it twenty-four hours a day.
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