Retrospectively, you’re sure you noticed the signs. It all made sense afterwards. Mother was there. She was certainly there. Father was engaged in the proceedings. But there was something. A vacancy. You would have seen it if you’d looked at the wrong time.
I learned that it had happened on Christmas Eve. My mother’s brother, just twenty-one years of age. Killed instantly on a short, insignificant motorcycle ride.
Christmas was done for them from that point. They resurrected it just for us.
This Christmas marks the 64th year. “Doesn’t seem possible,” Mother says. Father just nods and looks down.
David Dumouriez was born, has lived a bit, and will probably die.
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