Harden Street, 1958 (Part One)

The darkness settles in my chest like a heavy beast crouched waiting to pounce patiently he counts the minutes that add up to years storing the repressed tears and smothered hate that only add to his weight. He keeps the dark memories alive catches me by surprise re-running scenes on my mental movie screen. Their clarity is unaffected by the passage of time. They plague me without reason or rhyme, sabotage my serenity at the first glimmer of joy and he was just a boy then, my brother Chris, his genius obvious before the age of six. I remember the day: he'd written a play. We were practising our parts eager to start memorizing our lines he reclined against a brick wall covered in vines we'd found a cool bower below the porch a haven from the summer's scorch I saw the dappled sunlight play across his face a pattern of swaying lace his features perfectly placed Something caught my eye on the porch six feet above a motion like a shove and then I realised what Einstein had theorized long before that day in 1954 when he'd patted little Chris on the head: That time is indeed relative.