Harlow glances out the window as he takes the left. “You remember this place?” he asks.
Looking out his window, I see an old run down building. “No. Where are we?”
“I wasn’t sure if you would, you were probably three the last time we were here. Mom used to take us here to get our hair cut. There was a woman named Lisa who would do it, and you used to cry. Fuck, you cried your eyes out before she even cut a hair on your head.”
Smiling, I let him keep talking.
“Mom would try to calm you down, she’d tickle you, make funny faces, anything she could to get you to stop.” Flicking his eyes to mine, he chuckles. “And you would just cry harder.”
Our mother. I miss our mother.
Flashes of his story pop behind my eyes, but I’m not sure if they’re real memories or just his words coming to life in my head.
My mother’s face comes alive, her smile, her eyes, the way her hair used to frame her face, the smell of her perfume. I can still smell the sunflowers.
“What about this place?” he asks as he pulls into the lot of a broken and rusty playground. “You remember this one?”
I do.
It’s been years since I’ve come to this part of town. Memories rush through my brain of our childhood. Cookouts, birthday parties, holidays. All the good things that hurt more now than anything. It’s easier to push them down, force them into the back of my mind.
Harlow parks the car, and we both stare out the windshield.
Nodding, I start to laugh. “I remember this place. I remember you falling on your ass when the chains snapped on the swings. You walked around for two days holding your butt and saying it was broken. Mom would tease you and tell you you cracked it down the middle.”
He starts to chuckle, his eyes glinting in the same memory. “She let me think I literally broke my ass.”
“She sure did, it was hilarious. And dad kept asking if you wanted him to glue it back together. But you wouldn’t let him.”
“He chased me around the house with a caulk gun, and yell, ‘Here comes, Johnny!’”
We both start laughing hysterically, tears streaming down our cheeks. We had some good times as kids, even if it was just a blip in time. Because nothing lasts forever, especially smiles and laughs.
Our mother died when I was six, and Harlow was nine. It was the tragedy that steamrolled our lives into the shit storm it is today.
She was on her way home from work, when some asshole hit her head on. Turned out he was on his phone, trying to text his girlfriend who had just broken up with him.
That one action changed everything. My father isn’t the same, Harlow isn’t the same; fuck, even I’m not the same.
We were left to fend for ourselves once my father decided alcohol was his medicine to deal with the loss of our mother. Now, that’s all he is. He’s an empty shell of a man, with no feelings for his own children.
“Those were the good times, huh?” Harlow asks, running an open palm back and forth over the steering wheel. Crooking my jaw, I watch him and nod. “At least we had each other.” A thin smile spreads across his face as he turns his face to mine.
My heart aches instantly, ready to jump to his side, and help him with anything he needs. He’s my brother, that still means something to me. We share a history that only we can understand.
“Harlow, look, I’m just going to say it. . .” Pausing, I take in a deep breath, and hold it for a second. His eyes steady on mine as I let the air out of my lungs slowly. “Maybe you should think about doing something with your life. Fuck revenge, fuck everyone who’s ever wronged you, or me, or our family. Go back to school, get a job, do something to get the hell out of this place.”
His eyes dart back and forth over mine as he bites his bottom lip. He hears me, I know he hears me, but I’m not sure he’s really listening to what I’m saying.
“Are you serious right now?” he asks. He has a half smirk on his face, like I just told him a shitty joke. “I can’t walk away from this.”
“Why not?”
“Where did your balls go, little bro?” His thick brows drop in hard as he flares his nostrils. “Since when do you not stand up for our name? When did it become okay for someone to shit on a Ramon?”
“That’s not what I mean. I don’t think it’s okay, I never said that.” Twisting in my seat to face him straight on, I bounce my hands in the air. “All I’m trying to make you see is the outcome. Is it worth the risk? What happens if you get caught? What happens if you fuck up parole?”