There's this picture I took of you. It's black and white. You were wearing a white shirt and Isaac wore a black one. The two of you, on that swing. Arcing out over the lake and then back again. Isaac's arm was around your back in a brotherly embrace and you turned, your eyes meeting mine, just before the flash went off and your image was burned into plastic and paper. You with your blonde hair and white shirt, he with his dark hair and black shirt.

When I got the picture developed I think I remember staring at it for quite some time. Something resonated inside me. Something warned me. I knew that look was going to haunt me. I put it away in a box, always intending to show it to you. I didn't find it again until two summers later.

After the funeral, I held the enlarged copy in my lap, fully intending to hand it over to our mother. I couldn't tear my eyes from yours. Couldn't shake the feeling that I wasn't looking at a two-dimensional creation of ink but at you. And you were looking at me. I took the picture back home. A fifteen hour journey. One that you'd accompanied me on when last I was on those roads. You made the trip once more.

Now you sit up high, looking over the living room. On top of my bookshelf where I see you every time I enter the room. Of course I know it's not really you. I know it's not you.

But looking at it still makes me cry. So essentially, I cry every day. More specifically, I cry every time I walk in the door. It's like my monastic ritual performed before the alter of your grief. I grieve because you did. I die because you did.

You just took the shortcut.