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Sunday, 9 July 2017

It's magic

They're playing iPad games in the other room. Me, I'm having my hour of being oblivious to the world, with a book and a bed.

- mum, mum, he says coming over and looking at me, expecting to reply.
I don't. Just reply with a stare.
- mum, can you talk, please?
- you came over so clearly it's you who wants to talk (encouragement at its best), what's up?
- my sister has blood on her feet, he says.
- I see, is she in pain?
He nods.
- is she dying?
- yes
- so there'll be just the two of us now, you and me?
- yes
- I see. You came to tell me your sister is dying then?
- yes, of course.
- thank you, I say. Now you can go back to your games.
- I will, he says. And goes.
When I giggle and try to keep it silent (she didn't come to get first aid so noiseless laughter is fully justified), I can hear him coming back to his sister and saying to her: You are dead

... Sunday mornings. There's something magical about them.

 - she doesn't want to be my friend anymore, he says, sobbing.
(I'm a listener now, trying to complete a 15-minutes markup of that hour with a book that I started this morning.)
- why not?
- she's angry with me. My sister is angry with me. And I want her to be my friend, he says.

Then he adds something that makes this whole conversation a one-of-the-kind one. And worth remembering...

- because she is the best. And I want her to be friends with me.

... Sunday afternoons... the magic continues...