younger than going-on-seventeen,” as I read, the forest and the fire quieted themselves in honor of you. In honor of what the three of us were doing. “But I had noticed that Johnny looked younger when he was asleep too, so I figured everyone did. Maybe people are younger when they are asleep.” I closed the book and dropped it back in the bag. Only one thing left now. I unscrewed the lid, raised the flask into the air, and scattered the handful of your ashes that I had siphoned from your urn to the wind. I watched the last of you mix with the dust and ash. He watched you, too. Watched you settle onto the floor of Locust Grove. I remembered in that moment what mom used to say to me whenever I complained about you. “Your brother is the one creation that God can never take his eyes off of.” I never knew what she meant by that. I still don’t know. But seeing the way he smiled as your ashes hit the air, I think The Wolf knew.
Gary Reddin is a writer from southern Oklahoma. His work has most recently appeared in Stoneboat, The Oklahoma Review, and The Dragon Poet Review.
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