My Brother's Shadow Read Online Free PDF Page B

work. Mr. Wills shouted at me again; he was in a bad mood. “You’re just not trying.”
    He was right. I wasn’t.
    My favorite one we looked at is by Valerie Bloom, which is the most wonderful name. This one’s a metaphor:
    Time’s a thief … leaving you with tears and sighs
.
    I talked to Harry that afternoon, in the hall, outside of class. Harry was trying to watch the boy,who was circling the large room, swooping like a bird, but I wanted to talk to him.
    We wrote a poem together, me and Harry. I did the talking. Harry did the writing. He let me take it and copy it out in my notebook.

NOW SHE GROWS
    Out in the cold like a windblown willow ,
    Weeping branches pushed here and there,
    Full of sorrow like water fills the sea,
    She sits, she stares.
    Lonely as a cloud, not like any other,
    She wanders, so distant, so apart.
    Like a patterned tile is her smile,
    Ruined, imperfect, marred.
    Time stole her happiness in a moment,
    The crook, the thief,
    But now she grows,
    Heart grows, like roots beneath.

VOMIT AND PANCAKES
    Mum was sick, really sick .
    I was awakened by a crash. My eyes opened. The darkness was complete except for a narrow slit in the curtains.
    From behind my door I heard a soft groan. I stayed as still as possible and listened. And listened. Another groan.
    I pushed my duvet to one side; I knew that voice, my mother’s.
    It was just as dark in the hallway, but now that my eyes had adjusted, outlined objects became clear. My mum lay sprawled across the floor. A bottle, the neck smashed, rested just out of reach of her hand. A pool of sadness circled both mymother and the bottle; its stale tang attacked the back of my throat.
    â€œMum,” I whispered.
    The body groaned again.
    I crouched, carefully avoiding the vomit.
    â€œMum,” I whispered again, closer this time.
    She turned her head and peered up at me through her waterfall of hair, matted with muck. She pushed herself up to her knees. I put my arms under her armpits—no avoiding the sick now—and heaved her into a sitting position against the wall.
    She mumbled wordlessly, then breathed out, “Water.”
    I fetched her water. I made her drink. After she’d sat awhile, I led her into the bathroom. I gently undressed her and washed her down, then led her to her bed.
    She spoke once more before sleep overcame her.
    â€œMy Kaia,” she said, “it’s just me and you now.”
    I stood above her, looking down at the wreckthat had been my mum. I stood a long time in the dark.
    At last I spoke. “It’s just me, Mum, not me and you. You’re not here. You’re even more frozen than I am.”
    I don’t know where it all came from, probably the same place where I’d buried my pain, somewhere between my heart and my stomach, but it kept on coming.
    â€œThings have got to change, Mum. We’ve got to change and grow and … and … live.”
    I turned. I left my snoring mum. I cleaned up her mess.
    When I finally clambered into my bed, I found that tears covered my face and I knew that I had to say those words to my mum again, next time when she was awake.
    I awoke to the smell of pancakes and my mother’s guilt wafting under the door. I followed that smell. I love pancakes.
    â€œMorning, darling,” my mum said, her eyes still bleary but a smile hiding her shame.
    I didn’t smile back.
    â€œI’ve made pancakes,” my mum continued.
    I still didn’t smile.
    She stopped smiling and sat down next to me.
    â€œI’m sorry, Kai.”
    I rolled my eyes back and glanced at the short stack of pancakes. I love pancakes.
    â€œI’m sorry, sweetheart.”
    I picked at the tablecloth. I flicked a few bread crumbs onto the floor.
    â€œCome on, darling, talk to me.”
    I looked at my mum.
    I didn’t speak.
    Timing is everything. Spring buds appear, new growth, ready for the approaching summer sun. Chicks are