When he came home, he was under
house-arrest and wore a bracelet
on his left ankle. I joked with my sister
about our brother, how he was like a character
in a sci-fi film, and if he ran away,
past the driveway at night, an alarm
would sound, the cops would come, and surely
his ankle would explode like confetti.
We laughed hard at this, not to be cruel,
but maybe just stupid, so young and so full
of late-night movies we captured on cable.
One August night around the fire pit
in our backyard, we soaked corn, dampened
the ears before placing the husks over the fire.
The green hissed then steamed; the coals
popped but didn't escape. When my brother
grabbed a stick and raked the ashes,
I leaned forward and touched his ankle band.
Overhead loons passed by, reminding us
of our lake, our woods, the goodness
of summer, and all of it ending. Still
we sat on oak stumps shaped like Rolos,
clean cut on each end. Lumberjack furniture.
Yeah, he said, it’s for real but it won’t stay
forever. This piece of jewelry that made him
interesting. Before all this happened,
my brother would never have roasted
corn with his sisters on a clear summer night
when there was so much running to do.
©
is a creative writing PhD student at the University of Nebraska in Lincoln. Some of her recent work appears in Diagram, The Pedestal Magazine, Double Room, and Conclave: A Journal of Character.
Menting’s poem “On Learning It's the Midwestern Weather That Makes Us All Crazy” also appears in this issue.
