A Last Supper

My friend Dyana Herron is a poet, and poets make the best prose writers, or so I’ve always argued. But she’s also wise and tells heartbreaking stories. Her latest essay, about her brother going to prison, is difficult and beautiful:

I wondered if this was what my brother was going to do — binge on his favorite treats before he had no control over what he ate anymore. I even bought some snacks that I don’t like but he does, or at least used to when we were kids.

David got home from school shortly after I returned to the apartment, the food unpacked on the floor but not put away yet. I sat on our rug and repeated what my mom had told me. Then I gestured at what I’d bought and told him I’d gone to the store. He said, “I see that.” Then I put my head down and, for the first time that day, cried.

You can read the whole thing here.

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