Letter to Ian from Bellingham

Dear Ian: When your boat pulled away, the beer coasts of Mexico and racing ahead,
there was a bill. Books, tuition, housing. The inseparable costs of twins. Left behind.
When the sign went up and invoice reminders came, you were gone. When
the sign came down, the house still ours, you were gone, blissful and oblivious among tacos
to mutually exclusive costs: childhood or education. When tuition came, you were surfing.
When housing came, you were with Jos Cuervo. How can my days in hallowed halls
mean years of Ramen, while the spray on your face means only freedom, no worries?
There is always worry! Miles cannot erase a childhood broken and sold just to survive the year.
Latitudes cannot hide long hours of permits and sledgehammers and nights of tears from a father
who never cries. The coming house, so close its every breath is a laugh in my face, in their face,
will be your reminder. You paid the price of knowledge it says. But only we have paid.
Look around! You are grown now. And, when the sun has fallen and the beaches emptied,
when your boat sails back to responsibility, your bill waits. Half of empty bank statements, half
of the house in our yard, half of the student in their office. Half of every worried brow, every
missed phone call, every returned letter. But despite it all, they will be waiting,
ready to give again. At least you could call. Your twin Sister.