I took chill last night in the rain, and remembered how you would always catch cold in June. You'd sit in your living room on that overstuffed sofa afghan pulled up over your nose like the Queen of Ditmas Avenue— exotically scented by Vicks Vapor Rub. I remember the old black rotary phone you used to call each of your many girlfriends to complain of your impending doom— so young, so young, as your doting mother brought you tidbits and fragile cups of peppermint tea and your brother, Bob—my best friend— made a perfect pest of himself. I used to think, Bob was put on earth to entertain. He could sing He could dance. He could do all those happy things I was no damn good at. Before he left for Nam, Bob borrowed the lucky silver dollar that had seen my dad through his war. On his last night home, I swore it would keep him safe and that I would look after his sister. But, we lost Bob there, at 19, in a war about nothing, for nothing at all. And Sue, the girl I worshipped, runny nose and all tried to teach me to forgive myself. But, the lessons never took. I still hear from her on my birthday— it's in June. and it makes me smile to listen to her speak through a wad of tissues and a stuffed up nose— and to picture how she tries but fails to stifle even a single sneeze.