Fragments of memories at the cusp of recall.
Which language I used then, I cannot say.
At a rock pool, with my brother,
He was full of wonder at everything in the world,
his box of treasure overflowed, from dentist’
stickers to shells from the beach.
My companion in childhood.
How he died that long summer, I don’t recall.
If Dad wept, or if I cried, I cannot say.
At a rock pool with my brother,
They can’t be sure when it happened,
or rather, when he did it.
The whole neighbourhood shocked,
the gossip about why, speculating
The car is still in the garage,
the hose removed. She’ll sell it?
His widow can’t speak of the shock.
He is dead, her love. The house
Chrissie Morris Brady now lives on the south coast of England after living in Los Angeles for some years. She writes poetry and essays and has been published by Scarlet Leaf Review, Novel Masters, Mad Swirl, Dissident Voice, Plum Tree Books, Open Democracy, Writing For Peace and other print anthologies.