In the 1930’s, a sad seven-year old Cono writes a letter to his deceased friend.
Cono with his little sister
I hate it that you’re dead and that those stupid doctors in Roby couldn’t fix you to save your life. We had more things to do, you and me. More wars to fight with the other boys in the neighborhood and more of our own fights to have just between the two of us, the ones that were so much fun but made us dog-tired and bruised afterward. Even though you were just a little older, but a lot littler, you always got the best of me. We never gave up. You’d just say, “Cono, ye tired yet?”
“Yeah,” I’d say.
“How bout’s you and me stop fightin’ for the day?”
“OK,” I’d say.
And that’s what we’d do. We’d get up, dust off…
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