I used to email myself sad notes (short, bite-sized letters; I was good at those) whenever I felt repulsive and uncouth in the middle of a work day. In the absence of the time to grieve and a refuge in which to do so, I allowed myself tiny pockets of remorse or guilt. I spent five or ten minutes composing them--I described events, places, images, people, and experiences--whatever it was that made me feel horrible and then I sent them off to my secret email. Each subject line would advertise only the date or the time. When I got home, I sorted everything out and banished them to a separate folder titled 'Sad Things'.
I saw a recent photograph of a friend on his wall and I stared and stared. I couldn't recognize him. The few years that separate us was written on that image. He had grown up and into someone who looked--not tired--reserved, resolved. I hope this language is appropriate because I'm talking about someone I do not know. Kaibigan, pahiram. When I saw your photograph, I had to stop and blink. I had never seen you so serious before.
My friends all agree my brother is a handsome young man but they have never seen him stubborn to a fault, his expression an non-collapsible brick wall. Behind this stare is nothing at all, there's no desire to listen or forgive. It is brutish in its simplicity. And that's my brother with my own stare.
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