Oyster crackers lump like floating islands in blood. Tomato soup looks like that when Father wears big boxers at the beach, and we stroll the boardwalk hanging onto my brother who wiggles the way that worms try to—away. I could never wait to get there, once peed my pants in the car the line was so long, and tomato soup and oyster crackers seemed like a faraway dream, gentle waves lapping feet, until everyone sank.
He wore those boxers with a matching shirt for eighty years, maybe more. He ate a Danish pastry every day at four and listened to the six o’clock news. I never liked tomato soup after we moved from that beach, pushing those islands back like stones that weighted like vomit, on its way up, when it makes sense to take away from.
Every time I dream about beaches I am four and save my baby brother from drowning. My mother says of course she saw him.
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