Decked in heavy winter attire, my brother and I sat on our back screened-in-porch in plastic rockers that had worn blue plaid cushions. It was late, the night before Christmas, so we talked softly to not wake our mom and my dad, whose bedroom is directly above the porch. Joe, with his brown hair and 5 o’clock shadow, was smoking a pack of Marlboros. His normally bright, lively blue eyes were cold as steel tonight and I wondered why he had brought me outside to talk. “I have to tell you something… but you can’t tell Mom. He paused and took a long drag on his cigarette. It wasn’t hard for me to accept Joe’s revelation until three years later. This time, his words crackled and broke me in half.
“Mary…I’m dying”.
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