my mother is a beautiful, comfortable blanket worn thin in places.
sometimes she forgets to cut the needle off after patching herself up,
and I don’t see it until it makes me bleed.
(she insists the needle never breaks my skin, so I no longer argue when it does.)
my father is a sturdy, opaque, glass bottle, filled with things that mix like oil and water. sometimes he holds tears that almost never spill over,
sometimes he holds bitters and vodka and anger that erupt suddenly,
like a poorly-opened champagne bottle.
sometimes he holds tea as light as milk that warms my hands and bones,
and he always holds memories.
my brother is light incarnate,
changing and moving faster than anyone can keep up.
bright and warming and harsh and overwhelming,
and for all I complain about the light in my eyes,
I fear the darkness of a world without him more than I could ever hate his shine.