Before the lawn was stomped down.

Before the placenta was fried with two brown eggs.

Before the dog barked at us both.

Before Mom deemed us, “Perfect Gentlemen.”

Before Ms. Ann sewed two black suits down the middle for us.

Before we were the Blues Brothers for an entire October.

Before we loved October for an entire October.

Before we wore that same suit to Ms. Ann’s funeral because it just made sense.

Before we were too small, too slight to be pallbearers on Hudson Ave.

Before we sat Shiva at Red Robin

Before we ordered last and still couldn’t make up our minds

Before we found a book about two-hearted things.

Before we learned God was another word for Beast.

Before timidity took.

Before Mom assured us once more, “You are always my gentlemen.”

Before we went to the Renaissance Fair when we each got a turkey leg.

Before the teen emperor yelled, “Heresy!”

Before the chambermaids sang softly from the dopesick stage.

Before Dad suggested, “If you like being outside…Then it’s probably time to get you two to camp.”

Before camp.

Before they found us a camp.

Before we packed two bucket hats, two pairs of sunglasses.

Before that very first night.

Before we scooted our bunks together that very first night.

Before the fox-faced boy from Blaine County whispered, “Siamese disease” and we swung first.

Before our first punch failed.

Before we laughed the whole thing funny.

Before we dropped the J-bomb on Bunkhouse 5.

Before the tetherball snapped and everyone snapped.

Before the lice check.

Before the all-clear.

Before we signed up to sing choir because the archery class had filled.

Before we harmonized on “Shenandoah” and the altos cried.

Before we learned how to run on all fours.

Before the anchor.

Before the baton pass.

Before the bad finish.

Before they played “We Are the Champions.”

Before we weren’t champions.

Before we guarded Counselor Dane in the half-court.

Before Dane said, “Your shadow’s incredible.”

Before you told him not to be stupid and then dreamed of his big mouth for five consecutive nights.

Before the invite.

Before we all sat fireside.

Before we all agreed it was too hot for fireside.

Before we all agreed the Pack-God Diss Track was corny.

Before I looked away so you could do your thing.

Before Dane said, “Don’t do that ever. Like ever.”

Before you jumped up.

Before I jumped up.

Before you fell down.

Before I fell down.

Before the nurse stitched your knee and I felt the pain.

Before you knew pain.

Before I knew pain.

Before we dropped our towel and dared them to look.

Before we dropped our voice and begged for a listen.

Before that night.

Before the Mobster-&-Coppers Dinner on July 41st.

Before we broke out our suit and Ms. Ann’s seams held up well.

Before we sang while they suppered.

Before they no longer chewed.

Before our standing ovation in front of the entire dining hall.

Before we knew the kind of choir we were.

Before the before.

Before, before, before.

Before the too-quick end: that final morning, when thunder collapsed the lake; that final night, when the lake collapsed the camp; when the power stopped powering things; and they sent us all home.

Before that was—as they say—that.

Yes.

Before that.

All of that.

We learned as babies, small and vole, pink and naked against our mother’s chest.

The truth.

That.

One of us could eat.

And we would both have our fill.