He started wearing his hair short to show the scar above his right
temple. And of course those shirts ripped at the sleeves were still
his undeniable favorite. Then the day my mother bought some corduroys
for Christmas, he refused to wear them; they were teacher’s clothes.
So he said he’d much rather have something to wear to the gym; he went
there sometimes twice a day. Even the names of the colognes he wore
were aggressive: Swiss Army, Battle Axe, and an array of other
war-scented bottles lined the bathroom counter. I’ve long since been
amazed at how the things a person wears are like a self-portrait.
Or a picture of how that person wants to be seen by the world. My
brother is not the monster that his closet suggests. He started off
middle school as a shy, overweight boy who had a bookcase stacked with
video games and conspicuously fake designer T-shirts, without tears
or stains and meticulously pressed by my mother. I remember she
wouldn’t let us leave the house unless our clothes were wrinkle-free.
…
ISBN 1-59661-045-X
21 pages/$9