I stand outside an empty house once filled with laughter.
It's so quiet now.

It was a summer years ago.
The sun hung high in the sky, shining its ever-present light that seared my flesh and blinded me.
A cacophony of bird chirps drilled into my adolescent ears.
My sweat dripped down the dips and crests of my face
as I wrestled with the window's metal clasp, splinters digging into my small hands.
That bastard locked me out!

Hours later, we were stretched upon our leather throne.
Our large Irish lungs drowned out the voices coming from the screen with our debate.
I cut, stabbed, and slashed the air, using the tweezers I use to rip bits of roof out of my hands with to
accentuate my every point.
Throat parched, I drank the only thing we ever agreed was the best: Sweet Iced Tea.

The day after that he was gone.

Today, as I sip that black nectar, I wallow in its taste;
so bitter and yet still with a hint of that same sweetness.
It's so quiet now.
On the best days I can remember what we debated during the show.
On a good day I can remember how and why I got over my fear of heights and climbed atop the roof.
On most days I remember bits and pieces of our time together.
On a bad day I can't remember the last thing he said to me.
On the worst days I can't remember my own brother's face.

I sit alone in a house far too big for just one person.
It's so quiet now.