4
He writes. He has a machine in his room, and he spends more time with it.
Than with me?
I can wonder what words he writes. But I can't know.
Touch his arm, where he sits and he looks up at me. Wide eyes.
The ring hangs on the wall. This is the only way.
He gasps, a pretty sound. His knowledge is mine; absorption, assimilation.
Language.
And so I leave, and I begin to read.
When he cooks, he visits with me. I'm more comfortable than I should be.
I hate that, as well.
But, he braids my hair.