I don’t remember fighting over first player. I remember needing
a softer excitement
/thicker walls (whichever lets mom sleep).
most of the combos,
and having to hide in the bathroom (the only door with a lock).
I try to be a good man. It’s arguable if I’m much of either. I’m known to breathe vitriol — sparks through yellowed filters, but maybe it’s the dying reflex of withered parts. It’s a measure of remorse. It’s passed.
I remember how tall you looked as I sat, overburdened, cowering spine, a shallow body nursing tethered charges. Never one to twist limbs, you stood present, speechless and paused. You drew plain pictures in the tall grass until my legs worked, and we walked. Back to disconnects. And openness. I’m fortunate, in recent years, to have cut back on the habit of locked doors and hiding places.
I don’t know that you remember.
I’m always trying to stay on track,
and some days what keeps me there
is a little bit of multiplayer
and some backbone.
Photo ©Julie Anderson All Rights Reserved