our mother ... fire station

Our Mother Works at the Fire Station

for my brother

Some lucky days, at Goodfellow, Mom would pick us up from day care

and take us to watch the exercise –the retired plane they’d set alight.

It was always warm there, not just with desert wind or sun, but warm

with flame and fire suits that smelled of sweat. TSgt Almeida was always glad

to see Stephanie’s boys. He’d sneak us into the fire truck, let us sit in the driver’s seat. We wanted to be firemen, remember? We practiced with a garden hose. Then astronauts. Then football players. Our bedroom was full

of trophies for the winning team. Then separate rooms. Then separate homes.

I cried when you moved away. That sting, as if, I had inched towards that charred,

broken hull of a plane, still fresh with burning –placed my little hand against the ashen spots.

Brian Flynn Class of 2021