For most of the people I would
understand, and who might do
the same for me, this question
adopts a phrasing which trans-
poses it to another realm; and
we all live with many such pre-
emptions. In this case a poem,
later a Christmas carol, beat
us to the punch line, and yet
has framed the natural expres-
sion of my consternation, every
first week in February, as my
brother's birth date looms. In
fact I do not enormously mind;
I'm not sure when I noticed the
correlation of my question, and
the mystification I shared with
Rossetti's impecunious figure;
but the boy had been a chorister
and I accepted it as permitted.
A blog is stamped with personality but is not personal, a reader lately remonstrated to me. What could anyone give, I won-dered, if that were the case? Only our love can make us feel unread. Oh, we'd quarrel. There is turmoil in fruition; authorship's a rubbing clear.
I would give my brother the fortitude to accept his absence. I would give him the peace he has made with his death. I would give him the imprint of our escapades and larks, our studies and our talks, our sharings of a common bath. I would give him what is shining even clearer in the shade, and I would give him evidence, it mattered how we played.
iii Valéry Lorenzo