Empty flowerpots hang from a ceiling mottled with peeling, yellowed paint. My brother says he can remember the flowers - bright purple petals mixed with reds and yellows. I do not believe we ever had flowers. A door slams shut inside the house. Curses drift through the open, desolate rooms.
Heavy stomps approach, the echo flat in the stilled air but growing louder.
Out father staggers through the doorway and sees us crouched behind her. The smell of stale beer drifts toward us as he orders my by brother and me inside. We rise and enter the house, leaving our mother rocking and muttering. My brother looks at me, his liquid brown eyes dark in shadow. He knows my thoughts as I know his.