Oliver Tuttle

Letters to my Brother No. 152

Dear H,

I had a dream last night, one in which you had slaughtered the cancer, sliced it away with the sharp edges of your will. We were back at the Corner House, you had just taken me swimming at the East West Hotel. The pizza came in slices of four, and as alway, you ate one and gave me three. We watched the bustle of Residency Road and I begged you to take me to a movie. Somewhere, a bus backfired, and you instinctively pulled me into you, as if your frail, lanky frame could stop whatever projectile made its way to us. I pushed you away, embarrassed. "Stooooop it," I cried.  Then we were at a circus, and I could see how excited, how happy you were. I was feeling cruel, so I pouted and told you I wanted to leave. You took my hand and we walked out, and you didn't look back even once. 

Oliver