I went home for mom’s funeral. My oldest sister met me at the airport. She told me my brother was there too, but not my middle sister. She was not fond of my mother and felt celebrating the witch in memoriam was hypocritical. Oh, to be a fly on the wall at her current therapy sessions. Or any. Well, maybe not. Honestly, her absence was a blessing.

My brother and I hadn’t spoken in 17 years. Since our father passed. We were cordial but nothing really beyond basic pleasantries. And that was okay as well. Some things better left unsaid.

After the service and burial, I did however ask my big sis to drive me to a park where I once played with my big brother. Not necessarily better times, but we shared the same house (and parents), so by law – forced to interact. Hah!

It was here I cut my lip necessitating 12 stiches along with a scar I have kept hidden once puberty allowed for sufficient facial hair to comfortably disguise. My brother had lured me onto the spinning carousel, questioning my bravery and manhood, even if only an impressionable adolescent. I deftly caught one horse and even joyously spun for a time until I began to feel faint, slightly nauseous, and began begging him to stop. My pleas only encouraged him further as he increased the speed and hastened an unwelcome climax. Sure enough I could bear it no longer, released my grip and was thrown mercilessly head first from the roundabout unexpectedly into my awaiting bicycle.

We later deduced it was the bell of my handlebars that burst my lip and welcomed the bloodstream and subsequent facial carnage. I suppose it could have been worse. My brother never apologized and I’m certain I overheard him chuckle in mom’s car enroute to the hospital, muttering what a pussy I was.

The park is abandoned these days as is much of the area near our childhood home. Time has passed but the memories remain.