We rarely saw each other growing up --
Different fathers, you see,
though my mother had divorced them both.
Not having much,
mom couldn't raise us all.
I stayed with her.
They stayed at our grandparents.
Mama Mae, Papa Jim
She, a big, smiley flour covered lady
who always smelled of lilacs
He, a large, rawboned man in cowboy boots
who smelled of cherry tobacco from his pipe
I remember once -- a miracle! -- we all were there
for Christmas.
Mom and I and that other man
who smelled of beer and chewing tobacco
lived in Texas and Indiana and Illinois and Indiana again
and finally back in Texas
but in a dozen houses that never were homes.
Big Brothers lived in Texas.
With Mama Mae and Papa Jim.
And never moved at all.
I never knew which of us was the luckiest
but I know we all thought it,
because I got to live with mom.
maybe it was just me.
I thought of them both a lot:
After mom remarried -- again.
After he beat her, too.
After both of them drank too much.
After moving again
and again,
again.
I wondered if they ever needed me --
but no one ever needs a little brother:
Little brothers can't chase away monsters
when the house is cold and dark
or empty except for little brother
because they haven't come home from the bars
and little brother's little bed
is suddenly so damn big and cold --
The house is never more quiet
or scary
when Big Brothers live
six states away
and have their choice
of Grandma or Grandpa
or -- oh! -- each other!
to run to when the lightening flashes
and thunder booms!
to cuddle with
and finally fall asleep
in someone's warm, loving arms.
We're all older now
with lives and families of our own
with children who can climb in our warm beds
and snuggle when the lightening strikes
the thunder booms.
We rarely see each other now
just like way back then
But we talk once in a while
We send instant messages --
We always close with
"I Love You, Brother."
Always.
But sometimes,
mostly late at night,
when wife and child are fast asleep
the house is dark
the lightening flashes
the thunder booms --
Sometimes I wonder ...
if Big Brothers ever wish
for little brothers
... to snuggle in their arms.
YOU ARE READING
My Best That's Not Too Hot
PoetryA collection of my best poetry that's not too adult to get an R rating