Forfeit
My brother has become a famous boxing referee. He makes his history from bits of nothing. A knock-out boy, a golden glove. He puts his birthplace down as Brooklyn, of which he knows nothing. When he was a baby he was rescued from Brooklyn. Beside his stats: he hails from. He was taken from our father who dropped out of art school, our father who kills himself during the pandemic. My brother cleans out the house alone. Do you want something? Nothing. Weeks after, like it’s nothing, my mom says our father’s name: Did you hear about _____? Yes. Well, You’re invited for Easter lunch. Once I overheard my mother say my father painted all night. Maybe I heard nothing. We called him when I applied for financial aid. He answered the phone like it was nothing, like there’d been no time, no years. I hovered on the stairs. He agreed to sign a form to say he never gave a dollar. No shoes, nothing. My brother sorts out all the nothing. I nurse a grudge, ashamed to do it in this living body, some call a gift: the greatest one.