Little Brothers & Play Pretends
The room we occupy would be dim,
lit by the cloudy day spilling through a small window.
He'd pull up his computer and allow supernatural theories to engulf him.
When the sun finally sank into the soil, the only thing illuminating
the room would be his olive face from the reflection of the computer screen.
Between the shadows seeping into creases of his forehead and cheekbones,
He'd look exactly like our dad when he was 7.
He'd be an Angel.
Even with my absent-minded personality,
he'd force me to sit by the garden all day,
because apparently I needed to learn how to "open up,"
And blooming flowers will teach me how.
In our rusty family photo albums filled with pictures and sticky surfaces,
there would be a picture of him chasing a goose,
with the same prominent cheekbones and wide grey eyes.
He'd loved plucking feathers from pillows and birds,
because he had an unusual love for feathers.
He'd make me scrawny feather crowns from peacocks and doves,
He'd use UHU super glue to stick them on his back, right over the scapula, and say
"Look! I'm an Angel"
(because he didn't already know his head was so full of love it glows brighter than any halo).
I could continue and talk about his style,
But I'll keep that ambiguous—so I can build different imaginations
for my only child self-indulgence.
I have no siblings.
But I wish I did.
So I guess this leaves me filling the blank memories myself,
One feather at a time.