There is a photograph. Two boys stand
in straw hats, their arms draped
over each other’s shoulders, freckled
faces grinning into the camera. Behind them,
I remember, is a leaning barn, and an ancient orchard
scattered through pines. I can still feel
the summer heat blowing across the creek,
picking up the fragrance of tadpoles and rattlesnakes.
The older boy is ten, and is me.
My brother John is eight. He has already lived
more years than he has left.
I don’t know what wakes me up
this viscous afternoon. The phone
is screaming and the crazy dog
is barking like the end of the world.
Johnny is on his back in the middle
of our bedroom. Around him spreads
a puddle the color of apples. It is coming
out of his head. My father’s gun
is at his feet.
He vomits blood from his mouth and nose,
then stops breathing. He clicks.
Kneeling down, I put my hands in matted hair,
careful to keep my fingers out of the oozing holes.
I lift and turn. He gasps.
I am here in the dark, now, thinking
about hot summers and happy boys.
In the distance I hear sirens and some crazy dog
barking like the end of the world.
Jeez.
Wow. But that’s not the right word. That one hit me like a truck.
wow. I often don’t comment on posts because I don’t know the right thing to say, but for this one I really have to let you know that I am reading, and that it’s moving me.
I love the photo. more please?
This just leaves a big empty feeling in my chest, tears in my eyes, and sighs on my breath. I wish my words were better than that. But, like Lucy, I had to at least let you know I read it, and it hit me hard. I think I may have read this one before, and it felt just the same then too.
Same.
too raw to comment… even now. will comment soon.
You’re the best!