that tiny thing.

Today, when I did another google search, what came up was your eBay account. At first I didn't think it was you, selling miniature dollhouse furniture, tiny things you couldn't even focus on with your camera. I was surprised, because you were always such a good photographer, and those pictures were all so blurry. And then I remembered your mother's dollhouse shop, and your house, full of tiny things I could never wrap my brain around. And I remembered your father, so much older than mine, a gym teacher or a coach. And I remember how he approved of me because I played sports and I was fit and athletic and I remember wanting him to like me. Your mother never did. But I remember being OK with that. She had her mini-things, but I had you and the wooden boxes you carved and the music you gave me. And I can never listen to the Cure without thinking of how I broke your heart. Because I think I did. And I will never forget you telling me about the girl after me, how she was always happy and how it was so easy with her. Really, I just wonder if you think of me from time to time, even though I know you married the nice girl with an easy smile. And every once and a while you creep up on me and I'm happy the internet is here now, so I can google you and know you still exist, selling shitty dollhouse furniture in Jersey somewhere.

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