Early night and the August heat rose to touch the stars.

Brothers hangin’ out in our back yard, cooling off, hearing the crickets chirp and trees sigh. You sang me a song. You had great voice then. In those days everything about you was great and wondrous, just like the song you sang about a magical place where mountains were made of candy, where the sun always shined.

I laughed when you sang about cops having wood legs instead of wood clubs like Officer Greavie carried and swung at us.

“How do we get there?” I asked, and you said, “Listen.”

I heard that slow rattle-y freight train, rumbling on the rickety tracks behind our house.

Then you stood up, said, “Gotta go, Little Brother.”

When I said, “I wanna go, too,” you said, “You’re too young. Someday, though—both of us.”

I didn’t see you for a long time, and when you did come back you didn’t look so great or sound so wondrous and I asked, “Did you see the candy mountains, drink lemonade all day and pick fruit right off the trees? Are you gonna take me now? Can I go with you now?”

“Stop it,” you told me. “You’re old enough to know better.”

“But the train’s comin’ you can hear it, can’t you…. Tell me you can hear it.”

“Sorry, kid—I don’t hear nothin’. Time for you to grow up. Time to grow up. Both of us.”