The Watch

The neighbor’s kid had a croupy cough,

so I went over with a bottle of red syrup.

The pharmacy sells it in the same box

they used back when the hallway was dark

and my mother was crying in the kitchen.

I was seven and holding the plastic cup,

trying not to spill as I climbed the stairs.

My brother’s forehead was a hot, dry sun.

The laminate nightstand was already white

with the rings from glasses of lukewarm water.

I set the cup down and it stuck to the wood.

It’s a heavy thing, being the one with the light

when the batteries are starting to fail.