Desk

He has a better desk now.

The photo shows it clean, wide, real—

not the crooked corner I call mine,

where my monitor leans like it's tired

and the chair rolls slightly left.

He's only three years older.

But in the photo he looks finished,

like he's landed somewhere and knows

exactly what he's doing,

like he's not waiting for someone to discover

that he's making it up as he goes.

I saw the congratulations posts.

Mom and Dad both wrote almost the same thing,

like they'd coordinated it,

like his success required

that kind of emphasis, that kind of proof.

I remember when he left for college.

I was ten.

I remember feeling like he was leaving me behind,

like he was becoming something

I'd never catch up to,

like the distance between us

was only going to grow.

Now I'm almost his age then.

And I'm still waiting.

He's already at the desk.

I'm still looking at the photo,

still trying to figure out

when I stopped running toward him

and started running in place.