Tropic of Capricorn

Leighton Curless

The first time I realized the difference

between my brother and I

was in Sunday School.

He chuckled and laughed and smiled

with the other girls

and boys in the corner

while I sat at a pew

on my phone,

alone.

I’m not religious anymore.

An introvert is what they call it,

I learned in high school.

My mom is one too.

My brother’s genes are from my dad:

unwashed and vibrant; fresh out of the package.

I wanted so badly for him to ask me to join.

To invite me to the corner

so I could grin and 

bare my teeth,

filled with the metal of my braces. 

He never did.

My brother and I are inherently different.

My birthday January, his June.

Mine winter, his summer.

Capricorn and Cancer.

I never realized until I got older though.

Our relationship was so awash with 

“They look like twins!” and

“They’re so close in age!”

It’s hard to recognize that you’re the 

Tropic of Capricorn and Tropic of Cancer

when affirmations are being 

stuffed in your ears. 

It’s hard to recognize that the two are

approximately 3,200 miles apart.

I feel this in the way

I never know what he’s thinking

or where he stands, and

in the way he never sees me

for who I am.

I notice when my dad asks if

we talk on the phone and I

can’t remember the last time.

Some part of it is age

and space

and time,

but some of it is who we are.

My younger brother,

so strong and unreachable, in a different way than me;

a way I will never understand.

It’s not like we can let each other in,

because he’s 3,200 miles away.