Nooooooooooooooo!

I am eight or nine. Kevin is two and a half years younger. It’s just past noon on a summer day. We are hanging out on our front porch, most likely reading about Kryptonite or talking Flintstones or Three Stooges. Kenny, my oldest sisters star football player main squeeze, pulls up to the house in his big finned tomato red Chevy Impala convertible with two of his rowdy friends in tow. He honks a few notes on his horn and shouts, “hey Kev, we’re hitting Point Lookout. Suit up and jump in.” My brother races inside and in a flash, he runs down our walk to the curb, trunks on and towel in hand. I feel lonely. I indict my brother - and not our mother - for my dark place that afternoon that set some very wrong things in very semi-perpetual motion for a very long time.