What's to Tell?

I've had birthday cards
for both my mother and my brother
sitting on the desk for 3 weeks--
now they are late.
Hump. It's like paying bills, actually.

In my brother's card,
I finally apologized for pushing him
into that tree 21 years ago.

He brought the incident up at Christmas;
he laughed, told with nostalgia.
But for me, the incident has always
been another burden to bear.

[Harp music and gentle waves please.]

We walked home from school almost every day;
that fall, in the blazing sun,
our jackets from the cold morning tied
around our waists,
I was, once again responsible
for getting this little 2nd grader home.
He wore thick black glasses and would drop
his backpack about half way home (we walked about 3/4
of a mile) every day, tilt his head back
and cry that he couldn't go on.

That particular day, Tara and Tia,
the two most popular girls
in 8th grade, were walking back toward the school--
on my street.

What to do? I couldn't let them see me with him,
couldn't me associated with this baby . . .

I leaned down and growled into Brian's ear, "shut up"!
Picking up his pack, placing it onto his shoulders,
I gave him a hard push forward.
He stumbled, tripped over his own feet, and smacked
into a tree. That's how I remember it.

He says he broke his glasses, chipped a tooth.
I only remember the bloody nose.
Tara and Tia quickly approached, "Is he ok?"
They were more concerned than I.