I grew up next to you, our undeveloped bodies squeezed by the confines of her body, our fragile limbs already grappling underwater. “There’s a war in there,” our mother would say. Her ringless hand sat on top of her stomach, feeling her belly tumbling like a broken washing machine. We already knew before anyone else, before her, or the doctor who mouthed “Downs Syndrome” to Oma when mother refused to let her in to see her grandsons. She became agnostic when she traced the flat bridge of your nose, but she didn’t know we still came out as friends and would be for a little while. We were a few days shy of ten, weren’t we? Jimmy had wanted me to stay out late to play baseball. The air was so thick that it felt like rippling inky water when we moved along the soft grass. We weren’t allowed; you wanted to go inside and make paper doilies like Oma did. Your were good at it. You liked the intimacy of the shapes canoodling with other shapes and admired how they gaped but never lacked. When you threatened to tell, that’s when I struck you and yelled “Go you, retard!” In the dark I was so close to you that I could feel the blood riding on your brow and the knot on your head and something more.
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