Tripping Over His Shadow
Metallica pounded from his bedroom,
the pulse of every summer—
the beat in my chest
before I knew the words.
I stitched myself
to his right side,
adhesive as only
little brothers can be,
tripping constantly
over his shadow.
He turned our roof into a runway,
called the trash bag a parachute—
it wasn’t.
I rolled my ankle.
Didn’t try again.
He was five years ahead of me—
enough to outgrow things
before I grew into them.
One day, he traded
his rusted Huffy for car keys,
moved out at eighteen
with Metallica still playing.
His music stayed.
Everything else changed.
*
Todd Wynn is a pediatric nurse living in Mansfield, Ohio. He recently began writing poetry as a way of working through past grief and understanding how that has shaped the way he sees the world around him. His work has previously appeared in ONE ART.
