When I’m high it’s like my toes are dragging just above the ground. The rain comes down softly. I’m driving and everything passes by in snapshots, like pictures in a slide show. The car smells, I know it does, so I roll down the windows. I hold the pipe between my teeth and take a hit using one hand to drive and the other to light up. I ignore the way everything looks unfamiliar. I took the kids to five dollar Tuesdays at the theater up the street. Saw a very bad comedy, good thing it was only five bucks. I switch seats and sit back while Chris drives home. I listen to the car revving awkwardly. A song plays on the stereo, Let’s Ride. It makes me think of sex, and Chris. And I’m distracted until he pulls up so close on the car in front of him at the signal that our reflections stare back at us through its back windshield. Then he starts singing along to the song and my thoughts filter back down to where they were, sex, and him. I think of writing something, the only thing that gets to me when I write is how it seems nothing particularly eventful ever happens. It’s always write, but what about? Maybe that’s what the teacher meant, it’s too far inside of the character’s head, how long can I really plan to stay there? I’m caught off guard when Chris slams on the breaks, and apparently the person behind him is too. It rear ends us and I’m pushed forward hard against the seat belt, which locks and snaps me backwards. Everything’s in slow motion as the car flips over, I watch the front of my car dent as it plows into the roof of the minivan in front of us. The thought that there’ll be a lot of angry and surprised people when this is over, floats across my head. I catch a glimpse of my brother’s hands against the roof of the car, in the rearview mirror, his narrow body slipping out of the back seatbelt. The glass on the front windshield shatters as gravity pulls the car viciously to the pavement. I catch my breath and ask if folks are alright. I get mutters from Chris, his sister, and one of my brothers. The other one in the car doesn’t answer. I’m trying not to panic as I open my mouth to ask the question, “How’s Jacob?” They’re slow to move, but I’m not. I dig around and undo my seatbelt. Twisting around on the roof of the car I look behind the seat for Jacob. He’s balled up, one foot trapped under the seatbelt, his head is at a strange angle, I can’t tell if he’s breathing. I reach over and pull his foot out of the seat belt, it feels limp and heavy. Power windows, I check to see if they still work, and when I press the button the window on my side shatters before it comes down an inch. I crawl out, see if there are cops anywhere, how come no one is shining flashlights in here to see if we’re alright. Two cops pull up with and ambulance as I’m reaching in to help my other brother, Jordan, out. Chris’s sister is lucky, her door is not jammed, she crawls out, crying. Chris stands next to me, looking at me, watching the cops. As soon as one climbs out of the car I run over and tell them there’s a little kid in the car still. He slipped out of his seatbelt, I couldn’t tell if he’s alright, he’s not moving. The cop motions to one of the EMs. He runs over to the car and carefully pulls Jacob out, lying him on the ground. I can tell from way over here, the EM’s behavior, the way Chris looks staring at the body, the way Chris’ sister starts to cry harder, the way Jordan is starting to sniffle too. That’s all it is now, a body. Being high isn’t helping right now, having drank a bit isn’t helping right now. Knowing that Chris was driving without a permit isn’t helping either. I ignore the cop, questioning me now, and walk over to Chris. “If anyone asks, I asked you to drive. Don’t say anything if you don’t have to, and whatever happens, remember it ain’t your fault. If I can I’ll stay a few days ad help you deal with my mother. This is all on me okay? On me. Go stand by Jordan, his brother is gone, reduced to an empty body, I can’t help him right now, you can. And call your mother and mine.” I’m thinking as I say it, I don’t deal with cops much, I don’t know what’s going to happen. I just have to say things while I’m feeling brave enough to make sense. I walk back over to the cop, and start answering his questions. Yes that’s my brother, no those two aren’t our relations, they live with us though. Yes, I knew he didn’t have a permit but I’d been drinking and I know he can drive my car. It’s not on him. Yeah, my mom should be here soon, but her number is… He asks a lot of questions, so many that I don’t remember much of them. They look up my driving record, find the unpaid ticket, the warrant for it, and search my car, finding sixty bills worth, the seven pills and an almost empty bottle of vodka. They cuff me up and shove me into the back seat. The other car is gone, my brothers have gone with the other cop and my mother to the station for statements, the other drivers are gone too. I’m in the back seat alone. I don’t know anything about this stuff, will I go to prison? My mom is going to be pissed. Chris’ mom is going to be pissed. I’m guessing five years. And I’m guessing Chris won’t be able to drive until he’s twenty-one. I figure no one will write. They’ll still be pissed when I get out. My brother will still be dead when I get out. That’s definitely something precious to me that’s now gone, not just for a little while, I mean, you don’t exactly visit the land of the dead. I hope God welcomes him with the open arms I‘m sure I won’t get. And all of this shit is on me. People get mad, act as though I’ve no conscious. Do you realize what you’ve done? I laugh, comic relief mistaken for a bad attitude, of course I realize what I’ve done. I mean, what do they expect you to think about when you’re lying on that cot, wide awake? Fairies and unicorns? Am I supposed to be thinking happy thoughts? The days until my court date go by slowly, and so do the days after that. It’ll be six and a half years before I can get parole. I write to my mother, and to Chris. Chris writes back, my mother does not. I ask him about my mother and he tells me she’s torn up. And I figured she would be. I probably won’t talk to her ever again. He tells me his mom is looking real hard now for a new place to go, she doesn’t want to stay here with my mother, knowing he was driving the car when it happened. I probably won’t ever talk to her either, because if it weren’t for me, Chris wouldn’t have been driving. I don’t know how many times I tell Chris I’m sorry, and to tell everyone else I’m sorry. The letters I send him are long, so much time on my hands, nothing else to do. My cell mate doesn’t talk much, doesn’t do much at all. We get thirty minutes outside, but I don’t like being outside much. So much space, but no where to go. And free association sucks, too many people. I’m quiet too. No matter what I’m doing it keeps running through my head, the visuals of the whole thing. Everything going from downright lovely, to all fucked up. Everything is all fucked up now. I can’t say don’t blame it on me, I can’t say I wasn’t there, I can’t say it ain’t my fault, it’s all my fault. I hate guilt, it’s so difficult to stuff down. I keep telling myself I’ve got half a dozen years to mull it over, get it straight in my head, come to grips with it personally. I tell Chris this in my letter, he writes back to me that it’d be just as hard to come to terms with if I were out there. With my mom and his mom and everyone tip-toeing around on eggshells, he says it’s hard. I tell him in my letters I wish I could be there, I wish I could do something for him, for everyone, I wish I could bring my brother back. I wish I could rewind it back just far enough that I didn’t smoke that bowl, I didn’t guzzle from the damn bottle. Rewind it back far enough that I’m the one behind the wheel, and I’m sober, my feet placed firmly on the ground, and the night would have gone by just fine. Obviously it wouldn’t have been as eventful, but at least… I write as a tear drips onto the paper Chris my fucking brother is gone. I ponder that over, we went from four to three, just like that. Then I realize it’s worse than that, we went from four to two and one just like that. Me, I’m alone, and my remaining two brothers probably don’t know what to think. We all had big plans for Jacob, because he was the youngest, he’d have all the qualities a person ought to have, instead of the ones all of us wound up with. The rest of us would turn out like our parents, but Jacob, he had potential, because the three of us older ones had a say in it, so much for that. So much for studying the piano with him, going to his basketball games, it’s all over. Lying awake in my cell early in the morning I consider how it’s like my entire life has been ripped out of my hands, but the only part I miss is Jacob. I think of how I’d bathe him when he was too young to know better than to shit in the bath tub. I remember when he first learned his whole name, and every time he got the chance he’d introduce himself as Jacob Morgan Bakari Honoré. I remember teaching him to tie his shoes, working on his reading and writing. He caught onto sarcasm quick, I remember there was one time he told us our giggling was like nothing he’d ever seen before, with the air of an adult. And everyone laughed because he could only learn it from us, and then he was using it against us. He’s in the seventh grade now, getting older, wait, I guess he was in the seventh grade, past tense. My brother is past tense now. I remind myself to tell Chris to go to the funeral to tell me how it was. But after a few months, Chris goes from writing every week, to not writing at all. I’m in for about four years before I get a visit. Chris actually comes to see me. He looks handsome as ever, so much older now. He’s finally got a car. He shows me a picture of it, and some of my brothers and mother, some pictures from the funeral. He looks better than I feel, but I can see he still isn’t his best, he wasn’t at his best even before the accident. I ask him where he stays, and he scribbles down an address for me. I ask him how my brothers are, he tells me Josh, the oldest boy, but younger than me, enrolled at the junior college. Jordan, the youngest now, is still struggling in school, barely passed to the twelfth grade. I finally ask him how they’re doing mentally, emotionally. He says they seem to be getting on. I ask him if they knew he was coming, if any of them, my mother included, were interested in seeing me. I feel the tears welling in my eyes before I get the question out, and he tells me he invited them but all three of them turned it down. He said my mother says she still isn’t ready to approach me. I ask him why it is he even came to see me. But he doesn’t answer. When he leaves I can’t stop wondering. What he doesn’t realize is that I need to know. I need to know whether he came because he misses me, because he thought of me, because he forgives me, because he pities me? What is the goddamn reason? I don’t want to be pitied. I don’t want him coming to see me because he feels guilty, or obligated. I need to know someone actually gives a fuck that I’m in here, that eventually, I’m coming out. Will anyone be glad when I get out? I need to be forgiven. ..And what took him so bloody long. Eventually I take to praying, I take to reading the bible. There are evangelists that come through on Sundays. I talk to them. I find that I am in the same position I’ve always been in, if He cares, then where the hell was He when I needed Him. A loving God that lets so many people suffer. Sarcasm and logic get the best of me and I cannot put all my faith in Him, I cannot give in and let Him control my life. I write to Chris, and he writes back for the first time in what feels like forever. I tell him how I feel about God, knowing that he’s devout. He writes me, telling me everyone feels that way, telling me you just have to keep on keeping on, you have to keep trying. I never understood how people, especially Christians, could say that. It always seems like God is failing us as often as he’s bringing us out of things. That is, from my perspective. Sure, you got your water bill paid, but what about gas for the car? Sure, the taxes are finally paid, but what about food in the house? There’s always something else. This I don’t write to Chris about. I do not spend as much time writing to Chris as I did at the beginning. On occasion he writes me two letters before I write back to him. I’ve been writing to my mother and brothers at least once every month, with no response. I don’t give up on them. I write nearly the same thing every time. Letting them know I’m sorry and sorry again. Maybe every sentence says I’m sorry in a different way each time. Sometimes I wonder if my brothers even know I write to them. I could see my mother stuffing all the letters in a box somewhere. I wonder what it’s like to sleep at night when you’ve a sister like me. Imagine a sister that does shit like me and gets locked up like me, and lets shit like that happen. I put the picture Chris gave me of his car up on my wall. He stands next to the black sedan grinning. I wonder who took the picture, his mom probably. I wonder how his mom is doing. I wonder if she was wary of him driving for a while, if he was wary about driving. I already know that when I get out, I’m going to a place with ample public transportation. I can’t go back home though, not to my friends, I’ll probably have to go north to get away from them, too easy to get in trouble down there. I am getting out of here, two more years. I’m not counting down, because it’s still distant, but I am looking forward to it. I want to give the straight and narrow a chance. I got two more years, just two more years, and I don’t know where I’m going when I get out. Maybe I’ll go to Chris. Thinking of Chris, and having the opportunity to stay with him, the both of us older, now, sends my imagination on a wild trip. I’ve pushed sex so far from my mind in the last four years that it catches me off guard. Sex, and Chris…this is where I was when…and I’m right back on track.