for my brother Twin beds but we weren’t twins, we were older and younger brothers born of a preacher and his wife in a time that seems prodigal now, the time of boys. Our afternoons were ours, golden, unadorned with today’s gaudy anxiety that boys might waste themselves and grow into something less than extraordinary men. We’d play up to the very borders of darkness then her voice would rise and we’d run to supper round-tabled nightly by our mother’s ordered fidelity. But we knew first to bow our heads and clutch hands: may this circle be unbroken, by and by, Lord, by and by. Do you remember the candlestick lamp on that cardboard table between our twin beds? It’d burn long after they kissed us goodnight. I refuse to think we feared the dark. I choose instead to believe like God, we so loved the world. Brother, what we talked of in those liminal moments I cannot say. But I can hear our twinned-laughter, yours and mine. I hear it sometimes before I fall asleep. On such nights I bow and reach for your hand.