I’m built to receive. I can’t kill an ant, I can’t salt a snail, I can’t raise a hand to my uncle, My wiring won’t let me. So I lie in the mud, In my pain, In my weakness, And my fury at him Is nothing compared to my fury at myself. I am the crumbling aftermath of the earthquake. The dust settling over the ruins. Three minutes and it’s over. I rise, battered but not broken. Never broken. It will take more than my uncle to do that. I reach for the rusted knob, Opening to find Cody, His hair a wild mess, Eyes frightened and lost, But not a mark upon him. And Uncle Hoyt Has crumbled, too. Ruined and rocking, A baying, keening ball of misery, Kneeling in the center of the shed, Gripping himself as if he’s the one in pain. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he wails. “I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean any of it. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Always the same. He means it, too. He means it in the moment. But that doesn’t change what he’s done. To Cody. To me. I take my brother and close the door on Uncle Hoyt, Escaping from the epicenter Because I can feel my uncle’s pain, Like worms in my flesh. But if I can get far enough away, Fast enough away, His agony will be his, and his alone. Our bedroom is my sanctuary. I take off my shirt. I lie facedown on my bed. We begin the ritual. Cody and I. We both know it well. A warm, wet cloth begins it. He mops it across my back. Gently tracing reconnaissance of the wounds. “Is there bleeding?” “No,” Cody says. “A little.” He wipes my face, Around my swelling eyes, And in his eyes I see how bad it is. A second cloth, This one with alcohol. Cold and stinging. I swallow this pain, too. The next cloth is dry. Cody carefully blots, He assesses, He’s strategic with Band-Aids, Familiar with the shapes and sizes. “You want a shirt?” “Not yet.” He puts a towel across my back, Maybe to keep me warm, Maybe to hide the scars of battle. “They should be mine.” “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that.” He nods and begins to cry, But it only lasts an instant, Because before a single tear falls His sorrow becomes mine, A heaviness in my heart, A salty sting in my eyes. “I want to be sad,” he says. “Can’t you let me feel sad?” But I can’t do that. I’m not wired that way. I dream of the morning, And how it will unfold. Uncle Hoyt never remembers; It’s very convenient. He’ll grasp just enough to know he did something wrong, But not enough to take responsibility for it. Cody will avoid his eyes at breakfast, Studying his Alphabits like they’re a spelling test; But I’ll hold my uncle’s gaze, Making him look away, Because this time was worse than all the others, And he’ll know, And he’ll have to remember,
