little brother

I remember climbing trees and
pretending to shoot
each other from branches
across the back lot
mixing magic potions
out of mud and milk weed
until all the sadness was
almost forgot.

I remember 50 cents
for a can of orange soda
which we'd share
from the vending machine
down the block
and the old man who we always
thought was blind
waved “hello” and told us how big
we'd got.

At six years old
you taught me to skateboard,
and I taught you to jump rope
We'd race on our bikes
as the light flicker-faltered
down country roads
as we tried to remember
dad's jokes.

I remember your blond hair
sucking on your own fingers
we'd fight over who got
to open the mail
I remember playing dress up
in grandma's nightgowns
and your hat with the little
black raccoon tail

I remember the train
that passed through the back yard
the rain barrel with goldfish
that grandpa had saved
I remember the squish
of dirt and mud
that was our play ground
until dad had it paved.

I remember hay bales and
putting straw in our teeth
and sharing the sunset
in an old truck bed,
but most of all I remember
my first
and favorite and definitely
most irreplaceable
first
best
friend.