The Prompt Project

I keep looking through these Polaroid pictures. flip, flip, flip. it’s the only way for me to see you one last time. the only way to steal you back from…wherever. it’s this thought that makes me wonder. I wonder where you’ve gone. I wonder what you’re doing. I wonder if you’re happy. I wonder if you like it where you are; if it’s hot or cold or humid or full of bustling life in a big city or a small town, population: less than a thousand, or if it’s desert-like or Amazonian or if you’re staying in the good part of town or the bad part of town, in a wealthy neighborhood, or in the projects.
I flip through all these pictures like it’s the last time I’ll ever see you again. thinking about it, it probably is, but I just don’t want to admit it. I laugh at the pictures of us. and I cry at the pictures of you, looking so handsome in your Army boots, and your Army pants, and your Army shirt and cap.
I haven’t heard from you in over a year. I’ve written you letters every day, just like I promised, and this will be the last one that I’ll write to you. Maybe for a while, maybe for forever. But for right now, this is all I’ve got.
There’s a hand on my shoulder and whispering in my ear and then it’s my turn.
We walk down the aisle stiffly, with precise precision. We march, and I keep my head up high, and when a tear rolls down my cheek, I leave it there for all the world to see, and I grip the letter I’ve written you tightly in my hands. I’m afraid I’ll crease it and bunch it up, and then we’re there, and you’re looking a bit pale, you know.
“You should get some sun,” I say. “You’re looking awful.”
and for a minute I think your lips twitch like you want to smile, but they’re all sown up so you can’t. I tuck the letter neatly beneath your hands. they’re ice cold. are you in the Arctic? or maybe the Appalachian Mountains? You always said you wanted to go there; maybe now’s your chance.
I bend over and press my lips to your forehead before anyone can stop me. you’re frigid, and I leave behind some warmth for you before I walk away. and you remember how we were kids? everyone thought I was that weird kid, but you always stuck up for me. everyone thinks I’m weird here, I think, and you’re not around to stick up for me, but you know what? I’m not little anymore, big brother. I can take care of myself.
and I know you’ll be watching over me from wherever you are. so, I guess when I left behind some of my warmth, I stole a piece of you, too. and for some reason, that makes me happy.