Remember when we named ourselves after condiments?

When you licked the lamppost in front of my house? I can’t,

for the life of me, recall whether (and if so, for how long)

your tongue stayed cemented to the pole. Remember playing

house in each other’s basements? You were always the little boy, 

while I was the mom or the babysitter. We never switched roles, 

yet, between the two of us, you are the mother now, and you seem 

so good at it, despite your lack of practice. Do you think I would make

a good mother? Do you remember band camp? Remember Bethany

Beach? Remember bonfires and berry picking? I will never forget 

stripping off our swimsuits and sprinting into Lake Michigan, the 

water sloshing against our bare skin, the moon illuminating a freckle

here, a nipple there. Remember paintballing with other kids from 

your church? How we pelted each other with neon capsules in order 

to worship the Lord? I ended up hiding behind a tree trunk and 

crying to God or whoever would listen. Do you still believe in Him? 

Do you still believe in us? I don’t, and I do, I do, I do.