David.
Keifer Sutherland's face.
You wear aums and the gnarled roots of trees on your arms. And leather pants in the mountains in January. "Leathery" the man said to his companions on the curb. We smoked in platform shoes and talked to John Cryer. That man had a private party to run, but made us a table when a table didn't exist, because you are magic.
David.
You wore Frank Sinatra, The Cult on repeat because of John and Sarah Mclaughlin with your Diesel. The former, in a VW bug in the middle of a rainstorm with the top down, a fedora of clove smoke. Mad cackles at the free treasure we carried home in the backseat, gangled up, getting wet. It: Olive, "leathery", reclinable. The world on a string.
I have known you for 18 years but I have loved you, and cliche's, my whole life. I was born to be your friend. What child is not born into this world loving fun, silliness, and an absurd sense of humor mingled with bad language? That's a hypothetical question, don't answer that.
You are hero and heroine, father and brother, sweetheart and bitch. You are miraculous, brave, confused and lovely. The best days I have had have had you in them. The best of all of my memories include you, even if you weren't there- I insert you to improve them. You are not the borrower of others' lines but the collector of wit. You are the parentless son of a fool and a warrior, and her angel hands hold your broken heart. We all hold your broken heart. I take that back, there is nothing wrong with your heart.
I still laugh at 20 year old you, "Step off because this bitch can box." "Allllllll right hag, where's your fag?" "Every girl has her secrets."
You laugh with your big barrel chest and dance with your potato picker's legs. You are the surest proof that God exists. You raised your self and your sister and you know where to get a size 13 women's shoe.
David.
"Wipe a tear, take a step and smile."
