He no longer cares what they are saying on the family newsletter, who is going to New York today (his sister's memorial) or what the radio is playing. There were highlights to his life but they weren't our highlights; he accomplished things alone and laughed when our virtuous mother frowned. Tall and good-looking, he was a nerd at heart, except when his temper returned him to terribly handsome. The children felt he was the center of things and that's why they drifted away. It's funny how the psychology of kings works: the more they plead, the more no one listens. The child wants to play. He took revenge in the comfortable second half of his life, took care of himself, no longer tried to rule, except with advice. Our mother was there, always, always there, and comfortable, too. The crossword and the TV mystery. But she resented him crazily. It wasn't him. It was her. The comfortable mom feels guilty. I imagine him now, looking for her. In heaven they are young. With joy, she calls out to him.
