A Christmas card with a stamp from somewhere that had never been.
When the girls were 12 years old, he called.
“I want to reconnect, Noah. I’ve been thinking.”
“Thinking about what, exactly?”
“On them and being a father.”
I held the phone so hard that my hand squeezed.
When the girls were 12 years old, he called.
“You want to be a father, get on a plane. You don’t think about it on my phone bill.”
My brother didn’t get on a plane. He never did.
I doubled the note and went out in the heat.
***
The auditorium smelled of polishing of soil and cheap perfume. I sat seven rows back with my camera resting on my bad knee, trying to keep my hands steady. Twenty-two years of waiting this exact morning, and I still felt like I was about to drop a bottle of milk.
I deployed it with both hands.
