Andrew is reading my journal. This one. The one you're reading right now.
What an apt description of your childhood. You slay me sometimes. Everything is so pretty and ethereal and storybook and then you bust the mental picture wide open by throwing something in like the broken cigarettes.
Sorry.
No, it just floors me how easy it is for me to remember things when you put them there because of the way you describe things.
Heh. I should describe the time you put the fistful of sand on my tongue and gave me that look.
What look?
You know, the one toddlers give when they can't understand why you wouldn't want their pretend cookie? All that pent-up nursery school angst and post toilet-training rage.
Yeah, that rage. Wow. Hard to keep a lid on it. I think I made it up to you though with the proposal. I will always be number one.
You asked me to come live with you in your treehouse.
And to bring your blanket. I was planning ahead. It was going to be forever, Bridge. Until you said no.
Dinner was ready. I could hear my mom calling me.
Oh, yeah. I forgot.
It was a good dinner, Andrew. Like spaghetti or something.
There's always a better offer on the table. Literally, in this case.
I'm sorry. In my defense I was four years old.
Don't be sorry. I get warm flashes of memory when I read what you write about our childhood.
That's gross.
Not those kind of warm flashes, Bridge.
Right. I wondered why that treehouse stayed up until you were eighteen. Now I know.
