A Collect Call From...

A lifetime

ago

the

one phone

hanging with it's

rotary dial

on the kitchen

wall above

a set of canisters

descending

in size

Flour, Sugar, etc.,

rang in a tone

like all

the others.




A collect call,

my father talking

in that clear

precise way

that he had.

That he used

from the pulpit,

or in disciplining

a child.




Who was that?

In those days

we did not often

get phone calls,

I remember my

mothers concern.



Hayden,

my brother said,

and he was the

oldest.



Father hanging

the heavy

Bakelite handset

back in it's

cradle

gently as

a newborn child.



A quiet stillness

settled on us

disturbing us all.

You must never

accept collect

calls from him,

he had told us.

Nothing else.



Because it was

Sunday and

the service was

over we

had eaten our lunch

and my older

brother asked

to borrow

the truck to go

"riding around",



Take your brother

with you,

and my heart lept.

Big brother

shot me

a look as

we walked 

out the door.



Who is Hayden?

I asked my chest

pounding as he

unhid his whiskey

mixing it

expertly with green

Mountain Dew.



My own soda

a rare treat,

clutched tightly

so as not to

get away,



He is our cousin.



Then why don't I

know him,

and he just shook

his head.




He was cool,

a long time ago-

used to come by

and see me

on a motorcycle.

You're probably

too young

to remember.



He is on dope.



Just like that he said,

He is on dope.



I only knew stories.

Hippies jumping from buildings.

They thought they

could fly.




Nothing else was said,

and big brother was cruising.

I stared from the window,

wind in my hair.




All the years later,

and still dirty secrets

of good christian

families with

cousins who fly.




After all of the rehabs

and a couple of

prisons,



I wonder whose

 children

are taught
to screen calls.

I just made it
through it

and Hayden
is dead.