Lotion for this, lotion for that. Lotion for everything.
Except for that.

Each, in his own way, has a part to play as a young man, attending their very first funeral. Thirteen is devastated. Inconsolable. Fourteen looks on at his younger brother crying and thinks “Boy is Fifteen going to let him have it, for acting that way.”
And Fifteen does. He’s nearly a foot taller than Thirteen and easily lifts him off the bed with one hand as he sternly apprises his younger brother as a sissy-faggot-queer for crying like that, so dramatically and with plenty of tears.

The youngest brother is thirteen, the middle brother is fourteen and the oldest brother is fifteen. That morning they woke up with different ideas, different ways each planned to go about this very sad but special day.

The three of them were told, the night before, that their grandfather had died.

I love feeling remorse. It means I am human. I used to be this stick figure, drawn on construction paper in kindergarten class.
I was limited then. Now look! I am alive and I breathe. And hurt. Just like every one else. I also love. They say love is a action. But to act, you have to leave the paper and speak. Now I do. I love. I do all of those things now.

I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am…
Oh. Nevermind.

I may never know (what?)
I may never love (who?)
But I will always be (what?)

At 5 a.m., I am in bed with a cast of dozens. We are trying to work through things that happened decades ago.

Remember, back in the seventies, when you were a bridesmaid, when you had to wear that sheer, floppy, hat.

That hat is me. You forgot about me. Come find me. Pay attention to me.

You owe me money.

You owe me an explanation.

I paid my bills and was rather surprised I still had money left over. Then I remembered my age, my triumphs, my tenacity and the luck.
I was then no longer surprised.
I was ecstatic.

This is going to be hard. I’m not going to get this right.
Maybe I’m not supposed to.