Dispatches from the Edge

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  第45页

  仔叶茶

  Many times that year, I wished I had a mark, a scar, a missing limb, something children could have pointed at, at which adults could tell them not to stare. At least then they would have seen, would have known. I wouldn't have been expected to smile and mingle, meet and greet. Everyone could have seen that, like a broken locket, I had only half a heart. (更多)

  Many times that year, I wished I had a mark, a scar, a missing limb, something children could have pointed at, at which adults could tell them not to stare. At least then they would have seen, would have known. I wouldn't have been expected to smile and mingle, meet and greet. Everyone could have seen that, like a broken locket, I had only half a heart.

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  2011-11-27 08:23:51   回应

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  第188页

  Bill ((E/c^2)(sqrt(-1))(PV/nR))

  I worry I've forgotten what's important about my brother, what's not. I recall looks, images, arguments. There was the time Carter punched me when I was an infant. The time in high school when he screamed at me, "You're not my fucking father!" and stormed out of my room. The day I scrawled, "I HATE HIM!" in a diary. "Were you close?" Inevitably I get that question.... (更多)

  I worry I've forgotten what's important about my brother, what's not. I recall looks, images, arguments. There was the time Carter punched me when I was an infant. The time in high school when he screamed at me, "You're not my fucking father!" and stormed out of my room. The day I scrawled, "I HATE HIM!" in a diary. "Were you close?" Inevitably I get that question. Sometimes it's right after a person finds out about my brother's death; sometimes it's only after a few weeks of their knowing me. Were we close? Not so close that I knew he was going to kill himself. Not so close that I understood why he did. I knew his laugh, his smell. I knew the sound he made when he walked through our front door, the jingle of his keys, the particular way his shoes scraped on the floor. We didn't talk, however. I didn't ask him deep, probing questions. Do any brothers do that sort of thing? I knew what I observed, I knew his surface, but clearly that was not enough. I still dream about him, and in my sleep he seems so real. They're not happy dreams, however, because I know he's going to kill himself, and there's nothing I can do to stop him. I wake up believing for a moment he's alive. I wake up filled with dread. I found a Polaroid of my mom, Carter and me celebrating his birthday. It was the first one after my father's death. The cake is small and has twelve white candles almost a foot and a half in length. Carter bends sideways in a half hug with our mom. She's smiling, and I'm next to her. I find these photos from time to time--frozen moments, I can't remember. Every time I do, the violence of Carter's death shocks me again. I keep the pictures, as well as his scribbled notes and magazines--the things I found in his apartment. I tell myself that one day I'll go through them and perhaps discover some clue that will help me understand, help me answer the question: Were we close?

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  2011-03-27 18:57:44   回应

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  第45页

  仔叶茶

  Many times that year, I wished I had a mark, a scar, a missing limb, something children could have pointed at, at which adults could tell them not to stare. At least then they would have seen, would have known. I wouldn't have been expected to smile and mingle, meet and greet. Everyone could have seen that, like a broken locket, I had only half a heart. (更多)

  Many times that year, I wished I had a mark, a scar, a missing limb, something children could have pointed at, at which adults could tell them not to stare. At least then they would have seen, would have known. I wouldn't have been expected to smile and mingle, meet and greet. Everyone could have seen that, like a broken locket, I had only half a heart.

  (收起)

  2011-11-27 08:23:51   回应

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• 

  第188页

  Bill ((E/c^2)(sqrt(-1))(PV/nR))

  I worry I've forgotten what's important about my brother, what's not. I recall looks, images, arguments. There was the time Carter punched me when I was an infant. The time in high school when he screamed at me, "You're not my fucking father!" and stormed out of my room. The day I scrawled, "I HATE HIM!" in a diary. "Were you close?" Inevitably I get that question.... (更多)

  I worry I've forgotten what's important about my brother, what's not. I recall looks, images, arguments. There was the time Carter punched me when I was an infant. The time in high school when he screamed at me, "You're not my fucking father!" and stormed out of my room. The day I scrawled, "I HATE HIM!" in a diary. "Were you close?" Inevitably I get that question. Sometimes it's right after a person finds out about my brother's death; sometimes it's only after a few weeks of their knowing me. Were we close? Not so close that I knew he was going to kill himself. Not so close that I understood why he did. I knew his laugh, his smell. I knew the sound he made when he walked through our front door, the jingle of his keys, the particular way his shoes scraped on the floor. We didn't talk, however. I didn't ask him deep, probing questions. Do any brothers do that sort of thing? I knew what I observed, I knew his surface, but clearly that was not enough. I still dream about him, and in my sleep he seems so real. They're not happy dreams, however, because I know he's going to kill himself, and there's nothing I can do to stop him. I wake up believing for a moment he's alive. I wake up filled with dread. I found a Polaroid of my mom, Carter and me celebrating his birthday. It was the first one after my father's death. The cake is small and has twelve white candles almost a foot and a half in length. Carter bends sideways in a half hug with our mom. She's smiling, and I'm next to her. I find these photos from time to time--frozen moments, I can't remember. Every time I do, the violence of Carter's death shocks me again. I keep the pictures, as well as his scribbled notes and magazines--the things I found in his apartment. I tell myself that one day I'll go through them and perhaps discover some clue that will help me understand, help me answer the question: Were we close?

  (收起)

  2011-03-27 18:57:44   回应

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• 

  第45页

  仔叶茶

  Many times that year, I wished I had a mark, a scar, a missing limb, something children could have pointed at, at which adults could tell them not to stare. At least then they would have seen, would have known. I wouldn't have been expected to smile and mingle, meet and greet. Everyone could have seen that, like a broken locket, I had only half a heart. (更多)

  Many times that year, I wished I had a mark, a scar, a missing limb, something children could have pointed at, at which adults could tell them not to stare. At least then they would have seen, would have known. I wouldn't have been expected to smile and mingle, meet and greet. Everyone could have seen that, like a broken locket, I had only half a heart.

  (收起)

  2011-11-27 08:23:51   回应

  收藏

  推荐
• 

  第188页

  Bill ((E/c^2)(sqrt(-1))(PV/nR))

  I worry I've forgotten what's important about my brother, what's not. I recall looks, images, arguments. There was the time Carter punched me when I was an infant. The time in high school when he screamed at me, "You're not my fucking father!" and stormed out of my room. The day I scrawled, "I HATE HIM!" in a diary. "Were you close?" Inevitably I get that question.... (更多)

  I worry I've forgotten what's important about my brother, what's not. I recall looks, images, arguments. There was the time Carter punched me when I was an infant. The time in high school when he screamed at me, "You're not my fucking father!" and stormed out of my room. The day I scrawled, "I HATE HIM!" in a diary. "Were you close?" Inevitably I get that question. Sometimes it's right after a person finds out about my brother's death; sometimes it's only after a few weeks of their knowing me. Were we close? Not so close that I knew he was going to kill himself. Not so close that I understood why he did. I knew his laugh, his smell. I knew the sound he made when he walked through our front door, the jingle of his keys, the particular way his shoes scraped on the floor. We didn't talk, however. I didn't ask him deep, probing questions. Do any brothers do that sort of thing? I knew what I observed, I knew his surface, but clearly that was not enough. I still dream about him, and in my sleep he seems so real. They're not happy dreams, however, because I know he's going to kill himself, and there's nothing I can do to stop him. I wake up believing for a moment he's alive. I wake up filled with dread. I found a Polaroid of my mom, Carter and me celebrating his birthday. It was the first one after my father's death. The cake is small and has twelve white candles almost a foot and a half in length. Carter bends sideways in a half hug with our mom. She's smiling, and I'm next to her. I find these photos from time to time--frozen moments, I can't remember. Every time I do, the violence of Carter's death shocks me again. I keep the pictures, as well as his scribbled notes and magazines--the things I found in his apartment. I tell myself that one day I'll go through them and perhaps discover some clue that will help me understand, help me answer the question: Were we close?

  (收起)

  2011-03-27 18:57:44   回应

  收藏

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