He.

He.

He was different.

Always different.

Normalcy was an impossible feat,

A distant dream,

An indiscussable imagining.

He loved the color beige.

He liked clunker cars.

His whispers were scary,

More scary than when he yelled.

He was different.

Always different.

Listen to this song, he begged.

It would be a swell of violins

The pitter of flutes

The soft thuds of timpani

The gentle sloping of 5 french horns

Against a sky of crescendoing clarinets

It would be the choral singing

Of a 500 voice choir

In eight parts

Filtering through the speakers

In a billow of harmony.

I didn’t get it,

Didn’t understand.

Why he liked it

Why he listened to it

Why I didn’t crack the CD.

It was unexciting

Dull.

Meaningless.

There were no words,

No lyrics,

Just the blend of vocal cords.

He was different.

Always different.

He listened to songs,

Songs without words

And said they were beautiful

And they made him cry.

My strange brother.

I had 2 years on him,

But he had 5 inches.

And.

Never.

Stopped.

Reminding.

Me.

He was different.

Always different.

That’s what they said at his funeral,

The funeral of a 17 year old boy,

My little brother,

Who had 5 inches,

Three days after

The car

Drifted

Off the side

Of the road.

And killed him.

He was different.

Always different.

I found a scratched CD

In the glove compartment of his car

And put it in my car

So I hear the choral arrangements

Every day.

And now I listen to songs

Songs without words

And they are so beautiful

And they make me cry.