Fifteen years ago, he died a terrible death. The morning rain fell as he departed into the morning. Now, on the morning of the fifteenth year—the morning of rain and of the children of the dawn, the morning that stretches into day, the morning that leads to the day of death—the insult was carried out. Long ago, as soon as I was able to form my own voice, I wanted to say this: I wanted a similar substitute, a replacement for that child. A substitute, a younger brother. And the death of my brother.
