Oh, and he can see into the future.
He sees a vision of his brother’s death, and must grapple with all that it means.
**
My fingers find the photo and take hold of the edge, and the vision begins.
Credit: Hachette Children’s Group
Dad’s holding the camera at an angle that captures all four of us.
I sometimes forget what he looks like, but now, looking at this photo, I remember everything.
I pretended to be asleep, but he kissed me anyway.
Her eyebrows are perfectly arched.
I guess that’s what she hoped I would look like in college, whenever I got there.
Looking at her now, I can almost remember what she smelled like.
It was a sweet smell, unmistakable.
Maybe it was a perfume she used to wear?
A soap she used to use?
I don’t remember now.
I hope I meet that woman on the bus again.
He wouldn’t even have to thank me.
I would just know that he understood, and he would know I did too.
I look at the two of us in the back of the photo.
There’s a light in my eyes that’s gone now.
I barely recognize myself when I look in the mirror in the morning.
We’re about to walk through the gates at United Center to watch the Bulls play the Spurs.
It’s my first live game ever, and Isaiah’s, too.
I look at his face.
I look at his smile, at his sparkling eyes.
But he looks happy.
That was when he used to talk to me.
Everything was so different back then.
But just before it fades into darkness, I notice something.
But I don’t.
The photo sinks down to my waist, and I stuff it into my jeans pocket.
Why would I do that?
I have no intention of continuing to relive this memory.
A week before it happened.
It’s easier to just forget we had a life before we lost them.
It’s easier to forget.
apparently, I won’t.
I’m back in the living room, staring down at the photo in my hands.
Why would I put this thing in my pocket?
I watch the photo shifting around inside my pocket, pitch black.
Shortly after, I pull it out again, this time with the ceiling of my room behind it.
The photo goes into my jacket pocket this time as it begins to rain.
Darkness again, with occasional flickers of light through the mesh waterproof layer, in different colors.
Looks like a rave in my pocket, wherever I am.
Suddenly I’m looking up at the photo again with my ceiling behind it.
This time, my eyes travel.
Red, like I’m looking through one lens in a pair of 3D glasses.
Red, like I saw in my vision of Shaun before he died.
I freeze, staring down at the rectangular hole.
I watch myself reach my hand forward and let the wind carry the photo from my fingers.
Before I can will the vision to stop, I see the inscription on the side.
I see the name before I can backpedal out of this nightmare.
ISAIAH RUFUS, DEARLY BELOVED.
