There were many nights when I wondered if I was doing enough or doing something right. Looking back now, I can track everything that happened with a single decision I made on an ordinary October night.
Porch light flashed in October, projecting a thin yellow ring onto the wood. I came to house of a double shift with the smell of sawdust and motor oil, with the keys of the main door already in my hand, and I almost stumbled upon them.
Three safety seats, a diaper bag and a note written on a gas receipt.
I first picked up the receipt because my brain refused to look at what was inside the car seats. My brother Daniel’s lyrics seemed tilted to the right, as he always did.
I came home from a double shift.
“I’m sorry, Noah. I can’t do this.”
That was it. There is no forwarding address or phone number.
Daniel’s wife, Patricia, had been buried 11 days earlier. My brother had lasted less than two weeks.
She was 27 years old, unmarried and lived above the hardware store where she swept flats and cut the keys. I had exactly $312 in my checking account and a futon that didn’t retire until the end.
One of the triplets made a sound, a soft, moist hiccups, as if trying to be educated.
My brother had lasted less than two weeks.
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