I want to go home.
Little Brother just got home, kind of sad, kind of drunk. He is Talking about how he’ll miss his good high school friends, then trips over a floor lamp. Then says more about
College, Et al.
Looking at him, He’s no longer small. He’s big. His neck is more like my thigh,
which is big, And his hands are my face, and his ideas are kind of a lot.
I don’t know if I ever really realized that he thought.
Him talking to me is odd. He fumbles for the peanuts in the pantry.
Are we kind of talking right now? I mean, are we communicating?
In high school, He says, like I never went, It’s your last year that you make your best friends, Et al.
Is he really talking to me? Kind of. I guess Beer talks to sisters, Sometimes.
Leaning against the counter, he is huge.
We once shared a small room in our first house and it was not odd. He was small.
But we have never shared a salty cigarette on a drunk beach or bitched, really,
about anything, Together, which is how two people really talk, I think,
or maybe it’s this way? In which Beer talks, sister listens. She might even help him up the stairs, put him in his own bed in his own big room which is significantly larger than the one they once shared.