Chapel of Inadvertent Joy

Youngest Brother Turning Forty

56 Youngest Brother Turning Forty I want to say something insightful, like you’re halfway there on life’s circular journey, but life is more like a Jackson Pollock: little bits of experience randomly splattered over the canvas of your senses. I want to say something clever, like if feelings were permanent, tears would stain our clothing like blood, but the fact is feelings seep inward, into the fabric of our spleens. I want to say something wise, like never submit your first emotional draft for publication, but the fact is both of our mouths spring open and shut impulsively, like mouse traps built into our faces. I want a sentence firm enough to pat myself on the back, like despite it all I’ve been a good brother, but the fact is we were never each other’s favorites, and the ledger of aggressions can not be wiped clean. I’ll always be the one who sold you pot when you were twelve, at double the price, the one who crowned you with a bowl of cereal. I want to say something useful, like the trick is seeing the world through stained-glass pupils, but some nights the mirror looks as dark as the bags under mom’s eyes each morning at the breakfast table, as if all the pills she’d been popping had clumped into a hand in her brain, and the hand was applying makeup from within. ...