by Karen Crawford
A faded photograph on a sunny beach–the first time you met your brother, a paternity test confirming what your father didn’t want to know, you in your twenties, your brother almost eight, hiding behind a pair of Party City sunglasses.
Years later, a song at a Cuban restaurant–siblings, cousins, all of us halves, all of us singing “Shame & Scandal in the Family,” none of us cared how it sounded, none of us cared how it looked.
An MTV Tres t-shirt–the one your brother gave you, the one you still can’t wear.
A last supper–your father’s kitchen smelling like home, your brother and his girlfriend watching the tram cross the East River, the New York City skyline sprinkling to life.
A phone call from your brother at Christmas as you were rushing out the door–and why didn’t you pick up… why didn’t you pick up?
Weeks later, a message–your father’s voice breaking, the phone slipping from your fingers, slow, slow, slow, a surge of white noise, of waves crashing.
Karen Crawford lives and writes in the City of Angels where she exorcises demons one word at a time. Find her on Bluesky @karenc.bsky.social.
Photo Credit: Philip Graves on Unsplash
