I go to the kitchen and return for certain tidbits. It's silly, yet we play house. I smear peanut butter on wafers for him—in the wake of affirming he's not unfavorably susceptible—and serve them with a glass of frosted tea. "How was your day, Albert?"
"The best," he says.
"Me as well," I say.
Albert taps the edge of the bed. "Get here." I plunk down next to him and we settle in, connecting our arms and legs together. We talk more about our accounts, similar to how at whatever point he was showcasing his folks would drive him to sit in the room with them, similar to how my father would advise me to go clean up and quiet down. He educates me concerning Olivia and I enlighten him regarding Leire.
Until it quits being about the past.
"This is our place of refuge, our little island." Albe
