We picked the restaurant that night. Eating popcorn out of a wood bowl in the middle of a dimly lit table in a building made out of a castle, you asked us if we wanted to play Hangman. I was twelve, too cool for crayons and games, but my sister, eager for your attention, grabbed green.
I hadn't entered my stress eating phase yet, or the age where I hid bowls of pretzels under my bed out of shame for snacking, but I still downed the appetizer to share. Just like yesterday, when I devoured a bag of jalapeno jack kettle chips. Except this time, you didn't tell us we were moving. Or have a grin. Or clenched fists. Or even tears. You're a gargoyle sometimes, and I'm just Quasimodo, tending and caring more than he should.
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