A portrait of (a young man as his older brother.)

Wm. graduates in two weeks. Lil' bro is growing up and going off to college. It's terribly cliche, but it happened so fast. 

As I sorted through my closet, packing for my upcoming two month stay in Beijing, I stumbled across a torn paper bag. A Southwick tweed lay inside, wrinkled and forgotten; it was one I bought when BWmF and I were leaving the Outer Banks in late January 2011 and far too small for me, especially at that time. Made up in a bold gun club check and featuring all of the details any Trad/Ivy enthusiast would want, I figured I'd eventually find a home for it somewhere. I tossed it to Wm. who sat aimlessly in my room in typical fashion, his vibrating phone adding an erratic rhythm section to selections from a recently mentioned playlist (now almost two months late and to be mailed this afternoon.) 

Admiring the fit on the tweed, I told him to grab an oxford and the pair of raw denim I bought him at Christmas. Duke came along, too. He grabbed my glasses after a few frames. Weird.

Though we're not related by blood, he increasingly resembles me when I was his age. Comparing photos from the summer after my graduation from Mercersburg and my first semester of college, his typical swept hair, backwards hat, and Top Siders seem eerily familiar.

Wm. and Duke. May 2012.

Wm. and I've an odd relationship, though congruent in practice with many of my long-running friendships. Dictated most by vicinity and presence, one could offend our friendship by suggesting it was one of convenience; our brief time backpacking together, especially after our last evening in Rome alone, can dispel any such notion. "I love you, man, 'cause you're my little brother." Some jokes needn't be remembered to endure.

There's less and less I can do for him these days, and I don't mind that. We've shared moments memorable both independently and mutually, and though the frequency of such opportunities wane with every passing year, I look forward to what the future brings for both of us.

Good luck, Wm. 

Self-portrait, sort of.

The slow shifting of pebbles across a stony shore lie hidden below the surf. The gradual turn, equally imminent to his being and unencumbered by volitional considerations oft requisite to migrations, has led him to this place. As he looks back, ever carried forward, memories tinted dull or histrionic through the years will scurry past; he will carry on once again as if naught but an idealized moment was ever reality.