Renee reheated pancakes.
Nobody sang Happy Birthday at first.
Then Walter started badly.
Darius joined.
Miles laughed.
Renee stood by the stove until Miles looked toward her.
“Are you singing?”
She wiped her eyes.
Then joined.
The song was terrible.
That made it better.
After breakfast, Miles finally opened Marcus's letter.
He did not ask Walter to read.
He wanted his father's words privately.
He went to his room.
Sat against the bed.
Opened the envelope.
Miles,
Twelve sounds old when you're ten.
It will probably sound young when you read this.
I hope Grandpa remembered the shoes.
If he bought something ugly, blame him, not me.
Miles laughed immediately.
Tears followed.
He kept reading.
I don't know what you love now.
Maybe science.
Maybe baseball.
Maybe something none of us expected.
Don't let people make you stay the kid they remember because changing is easier than disappointing them.
Miles stopped.
He read that line twice.
Then continued.
You are going to hear people say you look like me.
I'm sorry.
Your face belongs to you.
You might have my nose, though. Nothing I can do.
Miles touched his nose and laughed through tears.
Your brother may have a hard time after I'm gone.
You may too.
Do not make either person's grief the other's job.
That is adult work.
If adults forget that, remind them.
Miles stared.
His father had somehow written the sentence that morning needed two years before it happened.
He read on.
Darius was my first son.
You are my youngest.
Neither sentence gets weaker because the other exists.
If somebody tries to make love into a ranking, walk away from the scoreboard.
Miles cried harder.
At the end:
When you get the shoes, wear them.
Don't save them because they came from me.
Things are supposed to become worn out.
That's how you know they lived with you.
Happy twelfth birthday.
Love,
Dad.
P.S. If they're red, your taste improved.
Miles laughed loud enough that Darius opened the door.
“You okay?”
Miles held up the letter.
“He insulted my shoes.”
Darius smiled.
“Sounds right.”
Miles wiped his face.
“Want to see?”
Darius stopped.
“The letter?”
“Yeah.”
“It's yours.”
“I know.”
Miles looked at him.
“I'm letting you.”
Darius sat beside him.
They read it together.
That afternoon, they went outside.
Miles wore the new sneakers.
Not basketball shorts.
Not anything special.
Jeans and a red hoodie.
He worried about creasing the toe for approximately six minutes.
Then forgot.
Darius bounced a basketball in the driveway.
“You playing?”
Miles shook his head.