Cousin

I know a boy with red curly hair and beautiful eyes.

He sits beside my mother and says a word. He says a word, she repeats it, he echoes her, she echoes him. They have a rhythm. They get along.

He is not my son. But his blood courses in my veins. We share a neurology.

He opens my eyes so I can see. This boy that I love who is not my son.

  

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