I’m going through my call log trying to find your name. The last time we spoke was on my birthday. I answer from a five star resort in the Dominican Republic as I wait out the rain, headed for breakfast. You are so sweet and heartfelt when you wish me love, health, and laughter. We look nothing alike except for our smile, mine identical to yours. In our enraptured joy, the mark of infinite bond: a thunderous cackle that emerges from the soul and expresses honest amusement.
Previous to that, we’ve only spoken on the Sunday mornings I’ve awoken in Pennsylvania. The Sundays I leave early in hopes no one else is up, to meet you for breakfast. To say where I’m going is to say your name. At my dad’s other son’s house, that’s not allowed. I don’t think I should remind you why. I’m sure you remember. I’m sure you pretend it didn’t happen. I’m certain you have figured out a way to justify yourself. Ignorance? You were old enough. Needed money? There were and are and will always be better ways to make some money. But I understood and kept you close.
You do stupid things. We all do, especially us. If people only knew where we come from, right?
You come from the man who pulled the trigger of a loaded gun to my dad’s back.