#i write this instead

When he is four, his maman places her hands on his shoulders and says, "We never, ever hurt people. Ever." Behind her, the girl he was fighting with glares at him from around the tissue pressed to her face and makes a shape with her hand, like a number one. It does not feel like a number one; it feels meaner. Still, he nods, “Sorry,” and feels the soft stinging dig of thumbs against his purpling neck, a kiss on his forehead. I am proud of you.

The first time he wins a championship race is no record. "There will be lots of those," laughs his brother. There will, he thinks, when he is older but still young enough, and Lorenzo grips him with joy and his fumbling hands as they hug. He is still sweaty and sticky but his brother does not seem to mind as he holds by his collar and squeezes against his back, I am proud of you.

An unequivocal thing, he thinks, is when someone twenty and none says, "We did it, papa." A breath. "I signed." When hands reach, but not too far, not too free, and he takes them or perhaps they take him. When skin rests against skin, salty and wet and painful, and a person's touch exists against someone's nape and replies, I am proud of us. I am proud of you.

He is seventeen, twenty, twenty and one. He is eighteen and nineteen and twenty and two, twenty and three, and so on and so on. He is sat on gravel and against fibreglass and staring at the stars, reaching up and around and feeling for his own throat. Pressing into his own fingers, the warmth of his skin and throb of his pulse great and grieving and alive under his thumb. He is whispering, I am proud of you.