I see the house. I’m standing in the backyard, looking towards the red back door, with its cracked and worn paint. A tree hovers over the left side of the house. My mom’s wheelchair ramp leads up to the house. The dusty blue van sits at the bottom of the ramp. My little brother stands on the back steps, looking towards me. His face is blank.
I see death. I see her black, soft, wispy fingers. Reaching. She swirls around him, never touching, never touching, but hovering, testing me, haunting me,
daring me to love him more.
Impossible.