Older Brother
If I step outside to scrape burnt bacon and egg over a bowl of dog food and sense a childhood ghost squatting in my periphery above an oak leaf, I, too, might think twice about saying hello, especially when only he and I are home. I would find his behavior strange, far be it from me to speculate on the particular properties of the leaf, the frost glittering on the spine, say, or serrating its edges. Nor would I pay him any mind if he follows the dogs as they go about their day, patrolling the pickets or sprinting into a flurry of barks at the passing of some jogger beyond them. Why should I greet him? He seems more interested the patio’s dark tributaries of dog water spilled perhaps by me, perhaps by accident, than in forming a connection with one of the living. To me my older brother died a long time ago. Why does he linger on, like smoke in the kitchen, long after I’ve finished breakfast? Why does he push my captain’s chair back in after I have gone upstairs to take a shower?
he Archivist, leather satchel in hand, picked his way through the tables and chairs to his spot in the corner of the terrace, overhanging the river. Nodding to Raul, the waiter, he took comfort in this, his daily pre-work habit. The sun was already warming the glass table top as he leaned his weight onto it, propping his oak walking stick against its edge and finally settling himself into the yellow cushioned chair.
