A Delicate, Soft Tansformation

Driving to pick up Brendan this afternoon I kept waiting for a line or broken phrase to approach me at the stoplight, at the random lull of traffic— but my attention kept faltering. Continually stumbled over tasks and not technique. Even now, at this moment, in the momentary stillness of the house— • In the dry of winter, even here, Southeast Texas, my skin cracks along the wrists, knuckles. As if I bareknuckled an opponent— the skin blisters into red flakes, festers. • I fear the next few days will revolve around the same mundane realities as today’s posting: weather holidays, laundry, insomnia. Beginnings of a cycle I suppose. As my list of fractured lines develops, increasing over time, I begin expecting all forms of writing to reflect a stronger purpose— that is, move beyond casual complaints. Setting myself up for the close of the year. The responsibilities of change. •

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—as if I bareknuckled an opponent— the skin      blisters

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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.

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.