His personality shifts closer and closer towards a mirror image of my younger brother— Brendan, I mean, he motions closer to an image from the past, meaning Lane. The transition lies as a haunting— a delicate, soft transformation. Not a harsh metamorphosis from Greek dramas, but a suggestion of tender emphasis. There are moments I fall into memory, as a transposition, similar to E. B. White’s essay “Once More to the Lake.” Yet, in this case I become my father, Brendan becomes Lane, not my younger self, not the me. So the blur of pronouns becomes even more confusing.
—as if I bareknuckled an opponent— the skin blisters
He translates to either persona or subject. The potential for abstract analysis heightens as the moment surrounds the two of us and I become lost in the jungle of identity. We end with a confirmation that the past is always with us. The future becomes history in the present tense.