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He still recites the alphabet on his fingers. Given any random letter, he must recite the song to remember which letters are its neighbor and where it fits in the alphabetical order. P and Q before R. J a few slots after G.
He is the third son, between brother, Walter, and little sister, Jess. Alphabetically, he is the second child, before Jess, but after Blake. In height he comes first, a substantial six foot one. In weight he is second, after Neil, at one hundred eighty-five pounds. Where grades are concerned, he places fourth, with a three point eleven GPA.
He has never measured his IQ. Not his broad jumping ability, nor the time it takes him to run a mile. He has not measured his charm, nor his temper, his grace, his cruelty. He cannot count those things, so he doesn’t bother with a scale. He never knows where he stands because it always changes depending on who stands beside him.
He likes the alphabet for its permanence. Luzzi, Anzuini, Guiseppe, Piermarini—
What is left to say? Empty hats, hollowed to fit your head, still hang one by one by the back door. What remains in them is skin my voice can’t touch. If I say your name again, will you stay? dream only ancient cities we passed through like lovers on a forgotten path after dusk? |