My dearest Augustine:

I was at Papa’s house recently and it did not feel like the place I used to call home. My barefoot on the steps of the verandah did not give me the joy I used to have when we were kids. Unfortunately, it brought tears to my eyes. Desolation is a bitch, and I know her so well. God knows, I miss the fake fight we used to have by the cashew tree in front of the house. The poor tree is now gone. Even the progeny of the beautiful guava tree that ‘stooped’ by Mom’s garden is gone too. Alas, it is only me that is left to tend to Papa’s country house. Reality has been cruel to me, and hard to accept. It has been three years since your death, and I’m still acutely aware that there is no one left to call my brother.

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