“Brother” by Anna Gasaway

For my little brother, who says I left him.

We were Christmas caroling for cash
to buy that Liz Claiborne triangle-shaped
 
perfume, to get a cup of hot cocoa
at the Christmas Festival, to buy something
 
we were told we’d never have. We told
him to wait, one more house, one
 
more “Silent Night” and “Joy to the World.”
My fifth-grade teacher at Fieler Elementary
 
in Merrillville, Indiana, opened the door, 
What have we here? She smiled in orange

lipstick as we started to sing, her penciled-
in eyebrows raised, but puckered when we

asked for money to buy Christmas presents 
for one another. She gave us cookies instead.
 
We shrugged our shoulders, Happy Holidays
we said. One more house, our teeth
 
chattering, we could see our breath,
one more “Away in a Manger” then we’ll

go home, “We Wish You A Mer–”
from the night a scream

What’s that? asked the lady behind
 her screen.  When people say that time

seems to slow down –it doesn’t really,
it’s protracted– it’s like running

through jalapeno cheddar cheese, that you
put on your nachos at school. I ran through

that cheese to find my little brother
lying in the middle of the icy road

in a puddle of blood trickling from
his face. Joel, please don’t die. He looked

up at me, Stupid, I’m not gonna die. Ambulance
came, a person came out of her Cadillac

wiping her eyeglasses. I didn’t see.
It’s all your fault. my mom said to me.




Anna Abraham Gasaway is a neurodiverse, half-Jewish observer of the human experience. Find her on Twitter @Yawp97.

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