Fifty-One Hours
It fits in a box the size of a shoebox and one folder and one filing cabinet drawer.
I never touched him.
That is the sentence.
Everything in this account, all twenty-six parts of it, is a long way of arriving at that one, and I have written it down perhaps two hundred times in four years and it has never once got easier and I have stopped expecting it to.
My son was alive for fifty-one hours in a building I was in and I never put my hand on him.
Not because of medicine.