On Coffee
It’s your third night at grandma’s house. The TV is on. Mom said not to turn it off. It’s like in a hotel, she said. If you turn it off it’ll reset, and you’ll have to find the channel again, and it’s not really a big deal to you because the only things on at this time of night are infomercials and shows that you’re not allowed to watch, but you’re good at listening to mom, so you keep the TV on.
You’re bundled on the couch, facing your brother’s feet. He kicks in his sleep. You don’t know he’s your brother yet. He won’t tell you until his twentieth birthday. You take him to lunch. Wings, the messy kind, from a place he liked before they got bought out. You can’t taste a difference, but he insists that they changed the recipe, and he’s usually right about those things. You’re in your car. Shift into reverse, check your mirrors, and he says, Do you remember what you said? On Christmas?
You've said so many things. You remember. You agree not to tell mom. Not yet, he says. The seatbelt digs into your chest, but you hug him anyway. You hug him for a long time.
But that hasn’t happened yet. Not when you’re nine and he’s seven, and you’re at grandma’s house for the third night in a row, and the TV is whispering about a non-stick pan and a limited time offer. You fall asleep, and you wake up first, and you wake to something new. A mug in your hands, a smile just for you. Just a sip, grandma says, and you laugh because you like secrets. You laugh because your brother is still sleeping, and you don’t have to share. You laugh, and you agree not to tell mom.