and now I sit in his room that has always been a mess,
the result of a need to keep everything.
an assurance that he might need the spare sock
dirtied by dragging his feet across the kitchen floor.
or that one day he could use that tacky box to hide his stash.
I ask if he needs help whenever I find myself sitting amidst his piles.
not just a simple assist of clearing space, but perhaps he could see a professional
instead of the local psychic every once in a while
(my brother can attest to the effectiveness of a cold reading).
suppose these habits die hard
and that I cannot expect him to move on from anything immediately.
he blesses my patience,
my tolerance even.
remember how I can become scathing before the bell rings.