I remember cold mornings in that foundation-shifting duplex
Hearing chorizo and egg breakfast wraps sizzle and
Slap the face of a plate on our hand-me-down dinner table
And Mom's feet slapping the face of the peeling laminate floors
And 20-pair-for-$20 socks slipping over little piggy toes in a guilty rush
Above and below our rickety bunk bed
While commercial breaks broke through
My father's Volkswagen brakes creaking outside
Some two or three walls away
Those were the only sounds I ever seemed to associate with him
In those days
I'm pulled back to popcorn bowls filled with cocoa puffs and hulk edition green chocolate syrup
So I could have chocolate while I had my chocolate while we watched Kiki's Delivery Service for the 100th time
And home phones ringing like a newborn- loudly on the hour and for no true reason
Chef Boyardee cups and canned fish with Louisiana hot sauce
Jammed into our mouths with our fingers because the bones were too much a bother to fork with
As our aunt always said
Pops coming home early on Fridays
Bringing home tidings of joy
Mcgriddles and pancake combos galore
Covering our fingers in Aunt Jemima syrup and therefore our house with Aunt Jemima syrup
As we went about our daily chores
Snores roaring from the couch as our younger brother bore his face deeper into cushions to avoid participation
I reminisce the summer days
When plays, commics and animes were drafted up, authored, edited and illustrated
In the small quarters that was our shared room
Reflections off of passing cars flashing across the walls and above our bent over heads
Pencil leads snapping and then clicking
Diligently, passionately developing our craft
Usher's Confessions playing softly from the radio/alarm clock placed precariously on the edge
Of our shared dresser
Into the thick of Texas afternoons
To be honest I didn't even like writing.
I just felt obligated to provide context to the battles that happened every other page in my novels
That always seemed to start and stop whenever my brother's did
It was never until I was about ten years old, during all those big-t-shirt-and-boxer-short days that I
Ever realized that my brother and I were truly different.
That I, or people, in general could be so fundamentally different.
And I loved him for it.
And still do.
I love him to death for the times that we would fight and my dad would send us out into the
Garage with sparring gear on and let us punch it out
I would always come back in sporting a black eye and a pout but to be honest...
There's something to be said for getting beat up by your big brother
It almost feels right
Not good, but right
Like a not so gentle but nice reminder that you've got a solid plan b when things "hit the fan"
I love him for pulling me out from in front of that negligent car and beating me senseless (again)
For trying to do what I was trying to do
I love him for not joining the military... because the track record isn't good in my family on that facet of social duty
And I had nightmares for months about flags and carrying caskets
Especially after Sundays
Feeling the glossy cold finish of the handles on the offering baskets
And because I would have to go with him
Because that is the only way I could somehow make it alright in my mind
Truly
...I don't think my mother could have handled that
You see,
My brother also ran track in those days
And he was pretty good at it (a hurdler)
But what would you expect when he treated the run like a depiction of his life
The gunfire ringing in his ear like the silence of night
And the finish line ahead of him like a door to be slammed shut behind between him and the monster that whispered to him in the quiet of night that his loneliness will never end
Sometimes writing can be the same
Sometimes we write about the things we long for and are running towards while other times things we are running from.
I think the difference between the two of us was that I dreamed and believed that some day I would Have jaw-dropping love and triumph like in my stories while he stuck somberly to the tiring reality That the bitterness of loneliness was gaining on him for the dead seeds he had sewn
Home wasn't always such a forgiving place
Nowadays I can see the fatigue in the wrinkles in his fingers and callouses on his feet
And to a far greater extent than he realizes understand the place he is in
And for the growth he is chasing the ends he must meet
But I refuse to let him take the beach on that internal D Day alone
And therefore will snatch up my helmet and deploy with him
Because he needs to know that after 20 years of having the job he never asked for
The big brother doesn't always have to bury the hatchet
And carry the cross
And keep the ship afloat
Because nobody's heart has enough beats for that
And because that is the only way it will seem right
Truly
Hearing chorizo and egg breakfast wraps sizzle and
Slap the face of a plate on our hand-me-down dinner table
And Mom's feet slapping the face of the peeling laminate floors
And 20-pair-for-$20 socks slipping over little piggy toes in a guilty rush
Above and below our rickety bunk bed
While commercial breaks broke through
My father's Volkswagen brakes creaking outside
Some two or three walls away
Those were the only sounds I ever seemed to associate with him
In those days
I'm pulled back to popcorn bowls filled with cocoa puffs and hulk edition green chocolate syrup
So I could have chocolate while I had my chocolate while we watched Kiki's Delivery Service for the 100th time
And home phones ringing like a newborn- loudly on the hour and for no true reason
Chef Boyardee cups and canned fish with Louisiana hot sauce
Jammed into our mouths with our fingers because the bones were too much a bother to fork with
As our aunt always said
Pops coming home early on Fridays
Bringing home tidings of joy
Mcgriddles and pancake combos galore
Covering our fingers in Aunt Jemima syrup and therefore our house with Aunt Jemima syrup
As we went about our daily chores
Snores roaring from the couch as our younger brother bore his face deeper into cushions to avoid participation
I reminisce the summer days
When plays, commics and animes were drafted up, authored, edited and illustrated
In the small quarters that was our shared room
Reflections off of passing cars flashing across the walls and above our bent over heads
Pencil leads snapping and then clicking
Diligently, passionately developing our craft
Usher's Confessions playing softly from the radio/alarm clock placed precariously on the edge
Of our shared dresser
Into the thick of Texas afternoons
To be honest I didn't even like writing.
I just felt obligated to provide context to the battles that happened every other page in my novels
That always seemed to start and stop whenever my brother's did
It was never until I was about ten years old, during all those big-t-shirt-and-boxer-short days that I
Ever realized that my brother and I were truly different.
That I, or people, in general could be so fundamentally different.
And I loved him for it.
And still do.
I love him to death for the times that we would fight and my dad would send us out into the
Garage with sparring gear on and let us punch it out
I would always come back in sporting a black eye and a pout but to be honest...
There's something to be said for getting beat up by your big brother
It almost feels right
Not good, but right
Like a not so gentle but nice reminder that you've got a solid plan b when things "hit the fan"
I love him for pulling me out from in front of that negligent car and beating me senseless (again)
For trying to do what I was trying to do
I love him for not joining the military... because the track record isn't good in my family on that facet of social duty
And I had nightmares for months about flags and carrying caskets
Especially after Sundays
Feeling the glossy cold finish of the handles on the offering baskets
And because I would have to go with him
Because that is the only way I could somehow make it alright in my mind
Truly
...I don't think my mother could have handled that
You see,
My brother also ran track in those days
And he was pretty good at it (a hurdler)
But what would you expect when he treated the run like a depiction of his life
The gunfire ringing in his ear like the silence of night
And the finish line ahead of him like a door to be slammed shut behind between him and the monster that whispered to him in the quiet of night that his loneliness will never end
Sometimes writing can be the same
Sometimes we write about the things we long for and are running towards while other times things we are running from.
I think the difference between the two of us was that I dreamed and believed that some day I would Have jaw-dropping love and triumph like in my stories while he stuck somberly to the tiring reality That the bitterness of loneliness was gaining on him for the dead seeds he had sewn
Home wasn't always such a forgiving place
Nowadays I can see the fatigue in the wrinkles in his fingers and callouses on his feet
And to a far greater extent than he realizes understand the place he is in
And for the growth he is chasing the ends he must meet
But I refuse to let him take the beach on that internal D Day alone
And therefore will snatch up my helmet and deploy with him
Because he needs to know that after 20 years of having the job he never asked for
The big brother doesn't always have to bury the hatchet
And carry the cross
And keep the ship afloat
Because nobody's heart has enough beats for that
And because that is the only way it will seem right
Truly
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