He got it from me, that brother no longer here. Wrapped now in the softness of forgiveness and yet, to me, stinking hate and pain and misery. And his mother, also no longer, who picked the wrong boy to save.
She should have fought for the invisible one, the quiet one. The forgotten one. She cried through the funeral, but never for me. For that, he’d had to die.
I visit the graves on important days, never leaving mementos behind. What use do they have for flowers or flags or tears. Why does it take those things to make us remember?
Invisible is the color of a sociopath. Stubbornness its name. I love my quiet family.