The closest I’ve ever been to my brother,
is one time in a furniture store – we were
browsing, as a family, which meant he and
I were just killing time, while mum and dad
shopped prices and fabrics. And so we
took turns on the couches, and chairs.
Pushing back the recliners, soaking up the
comfort; those footstools we never had.
And then, it was time to go. And my bro
couldn’t get the footstool pushed back in –
so he stood awkwardly up against the big chair
while an eager salesperson who clearly did not
know our dad went in for one final push.
My brother did the same actually, leaning in
against the chair, so hopeful to make it click –
like the safety belt message in the ad campaign.
Dad told the guy in the store he was out to lunch,
his prices obscene, his delusions so grand. And
with that, we walked away; a family in unison.
But the footrest on the recliner was like a comedy
Boomerang; the sound of the Roadrunner cartoons
soundtracking our departure. My older brother was
red-face embarrassed. But we laughed all the way
home – and for days after, or so it seemed.