my brother and i are roommates now, or again, pillow-fort-quiet we push to the windows. until, drowsy light, he sings out a line. “i’ve seen fire, and i’ve seen rain,” in the shower, tying shoes, doing work.

the scene begins, it knows, it knows. the mother laughs out-- and creates it. “on your feet,” harks the dad, meaning dishes, and you know this is just how he always says it, said it, gentlest kazoo of a voice. “a jello mold,” “is that a butterfly?” jokes that are more of a kindness. “let me help,” says lorna, in a top she sees herself wearing in the city, long skirt i know her daughter will find folded crisp. “i like her,” says the mother, knowing she’ll hear, precise wrist lifted, wine flushed, wine served to the older kids without ceremony. silver crowns made of take-out containers. they call each other sam, and it means we are us.

so much of ​running i​s frayed – when lorna says “certifiable” twice in a row then never again, when she asks, in a caricature of a generic line, “do you go to the school?” – so its perfection feels so much more like an accident/a life. when there’s nowhere for danny to put his jacket, he stuffs it behind a piano leg. when a song begins in their kitchen, it’s a memory already knowing itself; it’s exactly, exactly how you would tell it. it’s the same song my little brother has mouthed in our four rooms for months.

danny comes home late, sticks his head under the faucet to drink. his father is up, reading under a lamp, wearing glasses we never see again. in any other movie, this lighting means conflict. but no: “she’s fulla beans,” says the dad, in his midnight voice. “are you sleeping with her?” he asks, and danny says yes, and that’s it. he comes back down to push in his father’s face with his lips.

my brother locks the doors every night. padding bare feet while i read. any sound here is made from our this. thunk of two kids on their beds.

the parents twist, the dad says c'mere with his neck, pulls the little brother onto his shoulders, into a giant to dance with the mother. as the right side of the room, like a dent in a paper, crumples into its own scene. they let it. they fall in so shyly, relieved. danny’s crown topples; they laugh; they love each other into their own age. danny’s torso lets out of its tight-grip vicinity (strumming the blow-up guitar in her room, sprinting on the beach like a bodyhowl).

“i liked that movie,” says my brother, hours later, having culled enough quiet to build his one thought. front of his shirt full of dishwater. as he turns to sing, as he turns his own age, knowing i’ll hear him. i do.

source: ​https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V5Ztq4icMGU​ [ID: five white people dance in a dining room with a window into the kitchen. four of them wear silver crowns made out of take-out containers. to the left, a mother and father dance as the father carries his youngest son on his shoulders. the mother is holding her son’s hands, and the father is holding the mother’s waist. to the right, two teenagers, a boy and a girl, dance in each others arms. in the still, they look like they are hugging. letters hang that spell out “happy birthday.” there are streamers on the tv and the lamp above the table.]

[ID: the same people are dancing. in this still, the men are facing the women, who are each reaching their arms up in perfect, accidental synchrony. the mother to hold the younger brother’s hands, the teenage girl to fix the crown on the teenage boy’s head.]

Running on Empty. Directed by Sidney Lumet, performances by River Phoenix, Martha Plimpton, Christine Lahti, and Judd Hirsch. Double Play and Lorimar Film Entertainment, 1988.

em/ilie kneifel is a sick slick, poet/critic, editor at The Puritan/Theta Wave, creator of CATCH/PLAYD8s, heartworms/blueberries, and also a list. find 'em at emiliekneifel.com, @emiliekneifel, and in Tiohtiá:ke, hopping and hoping.