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Being a Younger Brother
by Adam Pittman You always took pride in being the older brother, even more so after dad died, and I remember how you thought the duties of the father were yours to inherit; in truth I never learned how to change the oil, I never listened to you preach the benefits of a Briggs-Stratton motor, I don’t remember what you said after I sold the Camaro. I do remember when I sat in the leather driver’s seat of mom’s Chevy in the parking lot of some McDonalds at 2 AM, sipping a small coffee and eating fries, watching the shadow of an American flag haunt the wall of some bank like the words “come pick us up” haunted my sleep-deprived mind, while I waited to pick up you and your young wife and her drunken friends as you walked back from some bar, I thought I was helping you find God. And I remember later in the plaque yellow light of those parking lot streetlamps, when I shook your hand across the center console as I dropped you off at that hotel in town where you were staying, I didn’t invite you home, because you already knew where home was. |
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