Lovely Day

I think I remember the anxiety. We took the minivan to Archetypical American Burger in the plastic daylight. I only liked the fries, but I was sunburnt so that was okay.

Brother pushed me in the sand, as he did. It was all the same: Mom scolded him, I was the saved. At night Bill Withers cried Lovely Day! on the radio and I just cried: Brother cheated at cards! He sang in a baritone to soul music, smooth jazz, whatever the decade called it, and I remember loveliness.

Mom called yesterday: suicide. We got some fries, Mom and I, played cards to pass the time. Brother had a way of getting from nothing to something in one sentence. Our game was unfair, he said one Sunday, and then it was just growing up and then it was getting older, and then days were too short. Wars passed, as they do, but we once got to play music on a boat, and that was nice.

Brother said: I remember milkshakes, and I said, I never had one, and the boardwalk was destroyed by a hurricane, the beach swept into the ocean, and then it was Monday morning. He said: You never gave me anything, and I said, I do remember the sad radio station and the fries. There was water around my ankles and some nice sunsets. Anyway, the truth was that I never learned how to play cards because I knew I would lose.