My brother, John, has turned out to be one of the most intelligent, likable, complicated people I have ever met. He says I am the only one who will laugh at all his crazy jokes. I find that very hard to believe. He has the most natural, sarcastic - verging on the sardonic - sense of humor I have ever run across, and with just his incredible mind, he could have been a comical contender, the real "Marlon Brando On the Waterfront" kind of contender. His timing is perfect, sweet and flawless, with little glints of double entendre salted in to make you think, "Does he really know what he just said?" Heck yeah, he knows what he just said, but he leaves it where it falls.
John, with all his talents and strengths is a prism hider. You can only see what he allows to be reflected in the bright white of the glass. That's okay. I love prisms. I think they're beautiful.
I, on the other hand, am an old fashioned Black '62 Chevy Impala with button controls for the local AM radio stations. If I think of a memory or a moment that I just can't bear to focus on, I pretend I am in that Chevy and I imagine pressing a radio button, any radio button to make what is on my mind forget and quickly switch to a new "station." It works for me.
My little brother and I have learned to function in dysfunctional ways. One day when John's prism chandelier breaks and my car radio won't run anymore, we'll have to come to grips with what's left. And we will too. I'll bet I can find all kinds of ways to slip in and out of a memory, and John is smart enough to grind up glass and make a new prism.
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