When the cousins talk about Finn, they always say he is too something. The cousins are three, Finn is one. He doesn’t have much authority yet.
‘He’s too small.’
‘He can’t talk.’
‘Finn can’t come because he’s at home in she’s cot because he’s not big.’
‘He’s not strong.’
‘Finn’s lost him’s shoes.’
‘Do him want to come with us?’
‘He’s too loud.’
‘He’s in she’s highchair.’
At the table, Finn eats steadily, bangs a spoon and watches the roof. Noah and Max look on, thinking about it.
They ask me, ‘Is that bread dead?’ Do dogs eat water? Where’s Pa?’
They eat broadly, expansively, and watch each other swallow. They have not finished but they are finished.
‘Can we play trucks now? Not Finn.’ Finn, hearing his name, makes eye contact, unhurried and joyful enough to make them pause.
And say, ‘Look at Finny, he’s looking at us… him can have the train.’
Noah sighs, ‘Yeah.’