I don’t think Momma ever understood why I moved to Nowheresville, Kansas. “Why live in the heart of the Tornado Belt?” she would ask, shaking her head and massaging her temple.

Well, why not? I didn’t need to justify anything I did for you.

We were always thrill seekers, you and I, and it was all your fault. Momma never got that, either. We went white-water rafting, and Momma held her breath, wondering if we’d show up for Thanksgiving dinner. We went bungee-jumping and Momma shat herself, probably afraid she’d get her sons back in little pieces. She called us on our birthdays just to make sure we were alive, really. And she signed each of her cards to you “Love you—BE SAFE.”

The way “BE SAFE” got bigger and more pronounced with each card showed just how unsure she always was of our health. And the fact that she sent a separate card for you was probably her little way of making up for freaking out when I first brought you home.

“Oh, you’re seeing someone? What’s her name?”
“David, Momma.”
I’m not sure whether the news made Momma faint, or if it was your bright yellow jacket with all those witty sayings ironed onto it that did it. That jacket was the first thing I noticed about you. And then your eyes, the way they dared me to do anything. And you had that little scar on your jaw. When you told me that a shark gave it to you, I was sure you were just being a showoff. Of course, now I know better.

And when you told Momma about it, she fainted again,

Okay, so finding out her that her son was gay wasn’t the biggest shock Momma ever had in her life. It was the static discharge next to your thousand volts, and Momma took them all in one day, bless her. And you continued to surprise us every day. You woke us all up. You showed us what real color in life was like. You took me rock climbing on our first date, and propelling on our second. And Jenny and Seth will always love you for taking us all on that fishing trip. That monsoon was so beautiful; that first kiss was everything. You were always so fierce and insistent. You never let us say no, for our own good. I didn’t know anyone could be so full of life until you breathed it into me.

We camped in the woods, you and I. We lived on the land, by ourselves, dead to the world, and so often came too close to being really dead to the world. But you took Momma’s cards with you to remind yourself that that couldn’t happen. When we went backpacking in the tropics and the toucan took your bag, you chased the bastard down and killed it with a rock. Not for the food, you said, but for the cards.

Because you wanted—you needed something constant in your life—something bigger than Momma’s cards. You needed something that lasted through the adrenaline rush; through the throbbing bruises; through the nights when the thunderstorms were our lullaby, and the rain our blanket.  You needed permanence. You needed roots.

That’s why I knew, despite your protests and your well-researched list of cons and your insistent little pout, that I would have my way when I suggested the house in Kansas. You could have your roots, and pretend that you were there for the tornadoes. Still, when you came home at night, you would walk across the bedroom like a cat, always mindful of that one creaky spot by the bed, but I woke up anyway. You would wrap your arms around me, and sing off-key melodies into my ear and stroke my hand, and your heartbeat would lull me to sleep before I could say anything.

Sometimes, though, you would burst in the door and pounce on me, excited about some new risk we could take together. I always went along because I knew we’d be fine. That’s just how it was: Danger had to watch out for you. And even when that tornado struck our town and we had to run into the basement, I knew we’d be fine. We waited in the dark, excited and scared, and the way your fingers laced with mine told me we’d be okay. And we were—the tornado moved right around us.

It was only after we nearly lost everything in the tornado that we started framing our pictures everywhere. Those, at least, we could keep no matter what. My favorite one will always be the one we managed to take while we were up the tree in our backyard. You dropped down right after we snapped the photo, and ran to the car because you were late for work.

The police officer came to the door around the time you usually did. When he told me that you died in a car crash, I actually laughed out loud. It seemed so anticlimactic for you.

So now I’m left with this house and everything that reminds me of you. Your sour melody fills the halls, and all of our trips together stare down at me from the walls, and Momma’s cards are still there to warn you every night.

Be safe.

I love you.

Maybe the tornado will come back and destroy everything you left behind. Maybe it’ll take me back to you.