The Hessians

The trout were biting
well into dark.
My brother ran around
with our father's flashlight.
The lake took our blind casts
with the familiar grace
that makes even the slow nights
well worth the trip.
When our fingers
couldn't bait the hooks
we wrapped up
poles and buckets.

I carried him across
the field back to where
we'd parked.
My hands pressed his thighs down
against my shoulders
like my dad used to do for me
when I was too tired to walk
as a kid.

His tiny hands gripped mine
releasing their hold as his snoring began
there atop my head.
Somehow, despite the bounce
he managed to fall asleep.
"Do you have him?" Dad asks
as we haul gear to our vehicles.
I assure him of the ease.
Pleased with himself
and the fruit he's yielded
he sings that 60s chorus
"He ain't heavy, he's my brother,"
in his off-key voice
I missed for half a decade.
Behind him I smile
over what'd make some cringe.

Later on, after tucking in the boy
the two of us split an entire
carton of ice cream.
He tosses its remains in the can outside
to get rid of the evidence
before the Powers That Be
can arrive home from the night shift
to discover our decadent indulgence.
It was his idea.
I only complied.
And I'd do it a thousand times over
if given the blessed chance.

Most folks only
get to live through one childhood.
I pity them.