Something about Love

I am sitting on the edge of a truck bed with both legs dangling over the side. It is only early March but the morning sun is unseasonably warm, and it skips over the silky waves of Oyster River. I watch as seagulls circle purposefully overhead. After a few moments, one of them plunges headfirst towards the water – closing more than fifty feet in mere seconds – and emerges with an unsuspecting fish wedged in its beak. I am amused by this game of cat and mouse, but I tire of watching after a while.

I close my eyes, the sun warm on my face, and collapse against Gregg’s shoulder. He smiles at me and tucks an unruly piece of hair behind my left ear and then untucks it, remembering that I only tuck hair behind my right ear out of sheer habit. I laugh at this little bit of remembering and pull his face towards mine; I kiss the curved space between his eyebrows. Gregg readjusts the acoustic guitar that he is learning to play and begins to strum notes that I do not know the names of.

I glance down at my old sneakers, sweatpants, and the pilled black fleece that I am wearing. I remember that I have not washed my face or hair since yesterday; but I don’t care. The music is freeing. It reverberates off the water and fills the surrounding air with an easy upbeat rhythm. I do not know what to call these sounds, but I know they feel good in my ears.

My Brother and Me

“Broski,” I say, stretching my arms out toward my brother. He is reluctant to return my hug, the act feels strained and foreign in this house, but after a few moments his shoulders slump and he crumples against my small frame. It is a long-awaited release, one he did not even know he needed. His shoulders are broad and muscular now, so different from the scrawny build that plagued him as a child. As he hugs me tighter I have to lift onto my tiptoes; he is four inches taller than I am, a fact that never ceases to surprise me. “I missed you,” he says. His voice is so low that it is nearly lost in the bulky hood of my gray sweatshirt. I am the only one who hears it.
It has been only fourteen days since we last saw each other but right now it seems like much longer. My brother is 18 years old; his boldness makes me jealous and his hard exterior makes me ache. But in this moment, as we hold each other in the narrow entryway of the house where we grew up, we both find comfort– even if only in the knowledge that we are not alone.