I sit wading in the ashes, crumbling 

what once was through my fingertips. How

did it get this way – it feels like just yesterday we snuck 

into our parent’s pantry and stuck 

silver skewers through the stale 

cupboard marshmallows. Me on lookout, you

igniting a jarring clicking from the stovetop knob, we lit 

the back kitchen counter ablaze. I knew this was our 

first golden-brown moment as the make-shift bonfire 

sparked anticipation in our 

eyes; I kept my stick a cautious 

distance from the flicker. You plunged 

yours right in. This is going to go up in flames you taunted – but

I was going more for toasted. It really does feel like yesterday, 

I was a roaring extinguisher. My foot anchored on your back, your amber 

eyes begged me from the carpet floor for mercy. I grinned 

as you screamed for mom to save you. But instead, she erupted

with an aching frustration I could trace

to her grasp full of your 

doctor’s appointments notes. I could have sworn 

it was just yesterday when I caught

a cold as chilly as the clouds outside, shivering 

in bundles of blankets. But there you stood, 

leaning in my doorframe – bearing a grin that said half 

I’m sorry, half have fun – I would have tackled you

had I been able to sit up. But instead, you 

shuffled to the side of my bed and sat with a 

bowl of warm soup. As angry exclamations penetrated 

our parent’s room next door over, we lived in our own world where 

there was nothing beyond what the rain concealed. You gave 

me a smile that I could see was fatigued, but

you continued to spoon-feed me anyway. 

I wish that was our yesterday. But 

instead, it was the day

I learned how easily golden-brown can turn

tar. You showed me that when you pushed 

back the dinner chair and spoke with a coldness

I’d never heard you wear before. Sick of

blame trailing a burden 

no fault of your own, I understand 

or at least I hope do – but since when did I stop 

being the one you could go to?

This is going to go up in flames you once said

and I’m still grasping at the golden brown ashes, crumbling

what once was through my fingertips.