When We Were Both Cowboys

I was sad that spring. Like I would scribble the heart-wrenching lines from poems I'd written onto the side of my new green converse, 19 year old kind of sad. It was a family weekend away and the hotel room had duvet covers with cowboys and cactus on them. Mom won $500 on an Elvis slot machine so we got to paint pottery. I don't remember what you made.

What I remember is that one night, I laid down on the bed, slowly curling more and more into a curved ball. I don't know why we weren't out doing something. You hadn't had your growth spurts yet so at half a foot shorter, you laid down and cuddled up with me, like I used to hold you when you were little. You were still little in my head. You didn't ask what was wrong, just accepted the sadness, told me that you were there without saying anything.

I remember thinking how typical it was that the lights in the room matched the color of the walls and the color of the desert beyond the city limits. It was chilly with the air conditioner on but I was no longer alone kind of sad. That was gone. My brother was still there.