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I drew the spirals—I drew them over and over again. Black against white till the latter's pristine nature had all but vanished behind the strokes that were short and jittery about my brother's face . . . it was as though evil existed in light's shadow. I didn't know what to make of it . . .
They took him away—took him from me; and here I sat by the sea, away from home where my heart was; and when my eyes lit upon the stars, I saw night framed in a delicate filigree of storm—bright light that tore open the sky with a savagery that I'd never seen; and blood flowed out as beautifully as whites from the divine.
In the painting that lay in my lap, sun wound through white hair as easily as gold. The smile on my brother's lips felt more like a dream. When did I see him last? . . . was it truly so long ago? In my dreams, blood had turned so vivid that I couldn't tell shadow from murder. When it spilt, it was . . . ordinary, almost mundane, like a thing meant to be forgotten.
The spring that fell from my brother's lips . . . I couldn't forget; every drop, a memory, a blade in my heart. Is that what they called love . . . ? Then it gentled my heart, that knife, slow and hurting till I felt it come from my eyes . . . how I wanted to not forget—to never forget—your spring, oh, brother . . . where are you now when I'm lost without you . . . ?
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