Tyler

They tell you his car slipped on ice and he broke his ankle.
You’re too young to know the truth.

He calls you one night, stumbling over his words.
As soon as he hangs up, you start to cry.

One small moment and your world implodes.
You leave a carefree life for one of uncertainty.

He tells you you’re going to hell.
Joke’s on him; you’re already there.

You stare at the dirt in the floor mat and try to ignore the swerving.
Your brother is beside you, but he’s not the one crying.

The next time you ask his friend to drive you home.
She looks at you and says sometimes you have to make the decisions.

You don’t talk about that time in North Carolina.
The time your brother was the one crying.

When he’s picked up, you aren’t surprised.
At least you don’t have to be afraid to get in the car.

A year and a half measured in yellow lined paper.
He misses everything and still chooses bliss over his children.

After months of ease, he’s slurring at the local game.
You’re talking too much to anyone who will listen.

You finally confront him, forcing eye contact.
He says he gets it. You don’t believe him.

The family plots to take the keys as if it’s going to help.
You stare at the ground as he yells.

You mop up the Redd’s he spilled on the floor as he texts on a blank screen.
He says he’s sorry.

You go to see fireworks and for a few hours, you’re a kid again.
But you know he’s sprawled and dazed on the sofa.

Remember the last thing he told you,
“Alright, I’ll be back.”