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?
