Who had he been A failed father, a runaway husband. A son. A packet of unopened letters. He was dead; he was dead.
n the infinite permutation of an ice crystal, everything repeats itself, but, really, from another point of view, nothing repeats itself.
Over time his images of the baby, like photographs handled too often, had worn down and creased, lost their definition.
She was crying now, quietly, inhaling so vehemently it was as if she were trying to suck the tears back into her eyes.