The tone of Gene’s voice, and the look on his face in the fields yesterday, told Paul what he already suspected: His brother was burned out inside.
He sits on his brother’s bed and stares across the room. The desk is immaculate, but on the floor, there is a sheet of paper that had escaped the waste basket. He reaches for it. A poem, a fragment, more like a song:
and until morning, there is a time
even a little time
even a jammed time
all we need is a fraction of time
Time. Paul knows that he doesn’t understand. He’s too young, and it’s surprising that he’s even reflective enough to realize that there are knowable things he doesn’t know, but his brother does.
Gene knows. That nobody is immortal, that days are short, that things change. Things end. They’re here, and then they’re gone. Some day, one of them would be the first to leave, and it would probably be Gene.
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