The Six of Cups, the Nine of Pentacles, and The Hermit are drawn . . .
I remember being six, and there was no Netflix — simply my brother and I sitting and cuddling next to each other on the couch. We stole pillows from each other and gasped with each other when the main character found out some secret. The same hour would come the next week, with a new episode for us to share with each other.
Now my brother and I go to the same college, but of his location, I rarely have any knowledge. Sometimes I’ll text him about a shared show — the only shared show because interests hardly ever stay the same — “Have you seen the new season?” My text is correctly capitalized and punctuated—it’s thoroughly distant. But he’s only a block away from me, rooming with his friends. He’ll respond hours later because he’s always so busy. “No, but I’ll watch it tonight,” he says — because he can. He doesn’t need to watch it at the same hour as me anymore. Eventually, I cease my messages, afraid to see his disinterest.
He has plans to move countries. My plans are to stay. And I wonder how much I’ll ever see him after. Will he call me? Will I be a bother if I call him? How odd would it be if I followed him? It’s all so silly. He’s still just a block away, not yet gone away. I could always just invite him over. Then, we can find a new favorite show together, and I’ll no longer have to miss my brother.