The Long Way Home
We are very busy breaking things. The sound of shattered glass gives me goose flesh, makes me erect. We bust every bottle on the boulder near our backyard. When they're gone, we get glasses from the house. We move onto our parents' china that's never been used, that sits in a dusty square box like Aladdin's corked lamp in the attic.
"How did you know where to find this?" Sis asks.
The plates are milky white with light blue swans on them, long-necked birds, graceful and portending beauty and hope. The first dish cracks like a light bulb, a shard bouncing back and stabbing me in the neck.
I throw another. Another.
"There are no answers in destruction," Sis says. Sometimes she talks like a book or a poet. I wish I could buy her some happiness, a cloak or a jet airplane.
When we're finished, we sit and listen. No one's car pulls up, no one drives by.
I take Sis's hand. "Come on," I say, "it's getting late."
We walk. Sis says, "But our house is that way."
"Not anymore," I say.
submitted at 11:41pm
15 June 2011
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