Thomas Hargrove, at twenty-two months, made an observation.
We were at the kitchen table on a Sunday morning, the usual Sunday configuration, my father and Margaret, Mrs. Aldren with tea, Rose with her notebook, Thomas in the high chair with the wooden spoon that remained his preferred instrument.
My father was telling a story. One of the good ones, the ones from before the worst decisions, the stories he had come back to in the years of his recovery, the stories from when my mother was alive and the kitchen was the best room in their house.
He was telling it to Rose, who was receiving it with the attention she gave to good stories.
Thomas was looking at my father.
Carefully. In the particular Thomas way.
Then Thomas pointed at my father and said, with the precision of his twenty-two
