Member-only story
Younger by the Sip
Drive brother drive, we are young again
The politically correct words would
be it was a humble home, but standing
with my younger brother on the street,
staring at the faded siding and crumbling
shingles on the roof, we know what used
to be our home as kids was, and still is,
a dump of a house two streets deep into
the bad part of town, still a short walk
from bars where old men in dirty work
shirts and young rednecks in camouflage
ball caps sit at the bar nursing cheap,
long neck bottled beer, arguing politics
and watching endless games.
We hate this house. The mother who
couldn’t save us from a stepfather
who thought slapping us around was
the right thing to do after a six pack
on a Saturday morning. But the house
has to be seen so we can remember,
if no other reason to congratulate
ourselves on getting out alive.