Poetry

One of Our Walks

We were on one of our walks, Alex

you and me.

 

I was 19 and you were 7

and neither of us quite belonged.

You were my foster brother and the full adoption

wouldn’t happen until September.

 

I was schoolless

for the first time in thirteen years,

biding my time till August

when I could be a freshman again,

and grades would start telling me

how life was going.

 

Both of us in the place

between belonging and not.

Just moving in opposite directions.

 

But we were on our walk

and you asked me

with your now-trademark directness

why I had to leave.

 

And before I could answer,

you offered

an explanation of your own:

“Because only Charlie Brown don’t grow old?”