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Breath...
I sit looking at this page, thinking about you.
My first memories of so very long ago.
I was four and you and some friends sat in the living room 
of our house on the corner.  It was a Friday, I know because 
that was the day you got paid.  You would invite friends over
and sit around drinking way too much, attempting to play music on
your guitar.  You only knew a few chords, but that was all you needed
for the whiny country songs you and your friends sang.
You were all smiles and laughter which grew bigger and louder the more
you drank, until Mom finally had to put you to bed and chase your drunken friends home.
Strangely, I find this memory comforting.  I guess it's just another one 
of the weird aspects of our unusual relationship.  Later, after several arguments with 
mom about getting drunk with your friends around us kids, you started meeting them
at bars.  Bar fights ensued and Mom having to bail you out of the drunk tank at the
local jail became an occasional but routine part of our lives.  Ironically, I remember Mom
once saying, "Why can't he just come home and drink," after pacing the floor all 
night waiting and worrying when you did not show for dinner.  Eventually your friends dropped you off, so drunk you couldn't walk.  Your paycheck all but gone.
I never understood you.

Breath...
It sometimes bothers me when I think back over my life remembering the important 
times and events and how memories of you played such a small role.  You were there, you were always there.  Many of my memories are very happy.  The family going crabbing at the beach.  The rancid smell of mud oozing between our toes.  Ice cream on the way home.  The taste of the blue crabs as we sat around the table.  You were there at my High School graduation, something you never had.  You even seemed proud of me, but there was always that sense of, I've been here before, that I felt whenever we shared something like that.  I guess, after doing it so many times, the novelty had worn off for you.  Being the strange fifth of six children in our family, you didn't know how to relate to me, not that it was your fault, it was a mutual thing.  I can only guess how my younger sister felt.  Of course, her relationship with you was very different.  You and mom took me out for pizza afterward to celebrate.  Mom never liked pizza.  I guess one of my most vivid memories of you was when I was sixteen.  My three brothers and older sister had left home and you and I were out walking around a piece of land that your mother had promised you.  You shared with me your dream of building a home on that lot.  Your blue eyes so bright, I could feel your excitement.  You paced back and forth through the dirt counting your steps, laying out the rooms in your mind.  I felt close to you that day.  I wanted to share in your dream.  I wanted to give you that dream.  It never came to be.  You never owned your own home and I could never give it to you.  
You and I were always so different.

Cont...

09/12/15
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