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He had a terrible toothache recently. No dentist was prepared to treat him, I had to take him to a clockmaker.

Every time friends and relations see him they say, “Look how much he’s grown.” I don’t believe them, I know they’re only saying it to make us happy.

Once a doctor who was braver than the others told us he would never grow. It was a hard blow.

Gradually we got used to it, we could see the advantages.

We can keep him on us, lay our hands on him at any time, he’s no trouble, you can just slip him in a pocket, he doesn’t need a ticket on public transport, but most of all he’s very affectionate, he loves checking us over for head lice.

One day we lost him.

I spent the whole night lifting up dead leaves, one by one.

It was autumn.

It was a dream.

No one should think it’s less sad when a handicapped child dies. It’s just as sad as when a normal child dies.

It’s a terrible thing, the death of someone who’s never been happy, someone who came and spent a bit of time on earth just to suffer.

With someone like that it’s a struggle remembering a single smile.

They say we’ll see each other again one day, the three of us.

Will we recognize each other? What will you be like? What will you be wearing? I’ve always seen you in dungarees, perhaps you’ll be in three-piece suits, or in white robes like angels? Maybe you’ll have moustaches or beards, to look grown-up? Will you have changed, will you have grown?

Will you recognize me? I’m likely to be in a terrible state when I get there.

I won’t dare ask if you’re still handicapped … Do handicaps even exist in heaven? Maybe you’ll be like everyone else?

Will we be able to speak man to man, and tell each other things that really matter, things I couldn’t say to you on earth because you didn’t understand French and I couldn’t speak Impish?

Perhaps in heaven we’ll finally be able to understand each other. And, more importantly, we’ll meet up with your grandfather. The person I could never tell you about and whom you never knew. You’ll soon see he was an extraordinary man, I’m sure you’ll like him and he’ll make you laugh.

He’ll take you for a spin in his sports car, he’ll have you drinking, they must drink mead up there.

He’ll drive so fast in his car, very fast, too fast. No one will be frightened.

There’s nothing to be afraid of, you’re already dead.

For a while we were worried that Thomas was upset by his brother’s death. At first he looked for him everywhere, opening cupboards and drawers, but not for long. His various activities—drawing, taking care of Snoopy—took over again. Thomas loves painting and drawing. His leanings are toward abstracts. He hasn’t been through a figurative period, he went straight to abstract. He’s very prolific and never touches up his work afterward. He produces series, and always gives them the same title. There are the “For Daddy” pictures, the “For Mommy” pictures, and the “For my sister Marie” pictures.

His style isn’t evolving much, it’s still fairly close to Pollock’s. His palette is bright. The format is always the same. He gets so carried away he often goes beyond the edge of the paper and continues the work on the table, directly onto the wood.

When he’s finished a picture he gives it to one of us. And when we tell him it’s lovely he seems happy.

I sometimes get postcards from a holiday camp the children go to. It’s often an orange sunset over the sea or a glittering mountain. On the back it says, “Dear Daddy, I’m very happy and having lots of fun. I’m thinking of you.” It’s signed Thomas.

The writing is tidy and regular, there are no spelling mistakes, the instructor has taken her time. She thought it would make me happy. I understand her good intentions.

It doesn’t make me happy.

I prefer Thomas’s shapeless, illegible scribblings. Maybe with those abstract drawings of his he’s actually saying more to me.

Pierre Desproges3 came with me once to pick Thomas up from his school. He didn’t really want to but I insisted.

Like any newcomer, he was descended upon by