Evidence
Lloyd Wallace
I used to have to put my brother back together every time he stayed the night. I’d wake up in the morning with his molars on my sink. I’d go make coffee, and find a little spotless fingernail in every single mug. I got tired of it quickly. “Why can’t you pull yourself together,” I’d ask the ears hanging, still wet, in my Christmas tree. I began to hate him for it. Every time I reassembled him, I’d tell him, “I’m not doing this again!” Then, one morning, I couldn’t find him anywhere. I looked in every room, and couldn’t find a single scrap of skin. He must have broken into so many parts, I told myself, that they were just too small to see. The wind had spread him everywhere, like music. I just wasn’t listening.