A Star Called Henry, Roddy Doyle

My mother looked up the stars.There were plenty of them up there.She lifted her hand. It swayed as she chose one. Her finger pointed.

-There´s my little Henry up there. Look it.

I looked, her other little Henry sitting beside her on the step. I looked up and hated him. She held me but she looked up at her twinkling boy. Poor me biside her, pale and red-eyed, held together by rashes and sores. A stomach crying to be filled, bare feet aching like and old, old man´s. Me, a shoking substitute for the little Henry who´d been too good for this world, the Henry God had wanted for himself. Poor me.


Volumen One of The Last Roundup

Una obra maestra.