Because of You, I Don't Throw Like a Girl

My brother learned card tricks
from my grandfather.
My grandfather, a leathery Maine native,
taught him cahd tricks
in the back yahd
around the picnic table.

At the end of the visit,
this slight of hand became one more way
for my brother to inflict
his magical torture.

I couldn’t figure out
how he guessed my card every time:
a two of hearts after a bike ride,
the ace of clubs before lunch,
the jack of spades during a nighttime TV commercial.

I couldn’t figure out his lay-up, his jump shot.
I always lost at checkers and chess.
He always hid where I couldn’t seem to seek.

His Monopoly magic –
motels lining each tree-lined highway –
left me bankrupt and begging for Scrabble.

But soon, I had my own magic to show him.

He would sit across from me
at the kitchen table
and watch me draw lines into a picture.

“You’ll be an artist someday. I’m sure of it.”

And the words felt like magic, too:
praise
from this boy who now shaved
and called girls after dinner
with his door shut.