A Letter for B.R.

Okay, so. Look. I don’t know how to roughhouse, or shit-talk, or take a kick to the shins after a close loss; I never got the training. My brother and I did not play; we said nothing, for as long as possible, floating past each other’s bedroom doors until we had something good enough to fight about. The chairs thrown and righted; verbal abuses swept deep into the back; and a quiet stalemate would resume in the morning. Nothing changed.

I will not play football with you, I’m sorry. I don’t like being touched.

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