my brother bird and i used to play a game. i'd point to a chair. "THIS IS NOT A CHAIR," i'd say. bird would point to the table. "THIS IS NOT A TABLE." "THIS IS NOT A WALL," i'd say. "THAT IS NOT A CEILING." we'd go on like that. "IT IS NOT RAINING OUT." "MY SHOE IS NOT UNTIED!" bird would yell. i'd point to my elbow. "THIS IS NOT A SCRAPE." bird would lift his knee. "THIS IS ALSO NOT A SCRAPE!" "THAT IS NOT A KETTLE!" "NOT A CUP!" "NOT A SPOON!" "NOT DIRTY DISHES!" we denied whole rooms, years, weathers. once, at the peak of our shouting, bird took a deep breath. at the top of his lungs, he shrieked: "I! HAVE NOT! BEEN! UNHAPPY! MY WHOLE! LIFE!" "but you're only seven," i said.
— the history of love, nicole krauss
