by Paul Hostovsky
My best friend Rich Luxembourg
had three older brothers,
Norman, Jack, and Maury.
They all sat in the backseat
of the family station wagon together
like Germany, France, and Belgium
surrounding the little duchy
of Luxembourg, tickling him,
elbowing him, squeezing him until
he laughed and wept with happiness
while I looked on from the passenger seat,
an only child
buckled up next to Mrs. Luxembourg
who was asking after my mother. Dying
of jealousy, and loneliness,
I told Luxembourg one Saturday afternoon
when he said he couldn’t come out to play
because he had to help his brother Norman,
or his brother Jack, or his brother Maury–
“I have no sympathy for you!”
and I slammed down the phone.
Because it didn’t seem fair.
Because here he had three brothers and I
had nothing but a mother.
Not that I didn’t love my mother,
but I think I would have loved her more
if she gave me a brother. “If you give me
Maury, just Maury,
I’ll be your best friend,” I told Luxembourg
after calling him back and apologizing
for having hung up.
“But we’re best friends already,” he said.
“Not anymore,” I said, and hung up again,
and sat back down on the lime couch
in front of our television.