From Issue 14: Ryan

C.C. Russell I catch you staring across my desk this morning.  In photographic grey-scale, you are nearly a man now.  In memory, initially, I always see you as that tiny boy, the day we moved to New York. You stared out between the slats of your stairway railing, asked me the question that adults don’t often answer sufficiently.  Tears in your eyes, you asked me why I was leaving. I want to say it’s funny, the way that time moves separately, separated as we are from each other. I want to say it’s funny the way you grew into yourself…

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