Almost Estranged

It wasn't long ago

that we could hide

in the attic, and I

would read to you

from old books.

Sometimes, we would

go down into the

music room and you

would watch with

fascination as I played

the piano.

Often, we would be

sprawled on the floor

of one of our bedrooms

with crayons and parchment,

and I would draw you

while you tried to

make words flow into

sentences, and then

into stanzas. You would

always use blue and

green crayons while

I would use red and

yellow ones.

I remember, back before

school, when our parents

would buy me music

and sketchbooks with art

supplies, and you would

get journals, pens, and

books. I also remember

the day they gave me

my camera, and we

pretended to work

for a newspaper;

me taking pictures

and you writing articles.

But things have changed,

for both of us.

Our parents hate me,

and I've left the

house. You've gotten

involved with the bad

guys, and I'm on

the other side.

You still write poems

and read. I still

play piano and draw.

We're brothers, but we

don't know much about

each other now…

How are we to ever

know what will happen

to the other?