“For Tom,” by Kathy Fish

What I remember: eating dusty sandwiches in the car, my brother reading to me from “Chariots of the Gods,” the way my other brother had been so uncharacteristically silent on that trip, the motel beds that vibrated if you paid a quarter, the long walk to the municipal pool and the man wearing big black shoes who asked me to sit on his lap. I remember the tire swing on my aunt’s farm and the uncle who unfolded himself from a rusty Volkswagen in full, military regalia, who saluted us, and our father asking him where he got the costume. I remember green popsicles and a chicken getting its neck wrung and slippery, gray hotdogs on slices of bread and a cousin who climbed a tree and threatened to kill us all with a hammer. It was no small comfort to see there were people in the world poorer and crazier than us. Continue reading →