his gaze clashing with mine.
I can see the hurt in his eyes.
He gave them the out, took the hit,
laughed it off while soaking it all up?—
the pain no one wanted to hold,
everyone’s grief, everyone’s guilt?—
tucked it somewhere inside him,
and now he’s making his quiet exit,
like if he moves with indifference,
turns his back, pours his coffee,
no one will see the weight he picked up on the way out.
Or notice he’s bleeding.
“Andrew, prendi subito la chitarra," Nonna says.
“Fammi sentire la tua voce, tesoro.”
Then from Grandma—“Yeah, go get that guitar. Been too damn long.”
He turns and leans back against the counter?—
“Non stasera. My hands ain’t steady for strings.”
Aunt Lisa appears behind me, climbing into the fridge. “Y’know,” she tells me, wrestling the cork loose. “Andrew’s been puttin’ on shows since he was a kid.”
I arch a brow at Andrew. “Oh?”
“Used to make us pay him for performances,” Uncle John calls out.
Laughter spills from the living room.
Aunt Lisa jumps back in—“Quarters to watch him sing, play guitar, do magic tricks, re-enact entire movie scenes, commercials. Kid was five-years-old walkin’ around with a fuckin’ tip jar.”
I turn fast, brows up.
“You hustled your family with a tip jar?”
Andrew gives a lazy grin.
“Was investin’ in my future.”
Paola exhales behind her wine.
“Tip jar said‘Andrew’s World Tour.’
“We still got it somewhere.”
I kill the water, dry my hands,
