Our Kid

I remember the night before you left home,
we stayed up until it was getting light,
shuffling boxes around your bare room
and reminiscing over the stuff you pulled
out from underneath your bed.
Hand-me-downs, passed down to you
from me, third or fourth-hand primary
coloured building blocks, Lego sets,
and your raggedy teddy bear (that
was new when you arrived).

I didn't half love having a kid brother,
someone I could muck around with
in the afternoons, in the summer
when the days stretched for weeks,
and when we seemed to spend our lives
clambering and tumbling about.
Grazed knees and grubby fingernails.
And I could always take you in a fight.

And that night you left, we sat
on your windowsill, letting in the
chill air of late summer.
Days had stretched into years,
and we'd both grown up and out,
and now I was sharing a smoke with you,
kid brother, and watching you pack up
your nineteen years ready to shove off
up the M6 for who knows how long.

You grew up faster than me, kid.
I guess we both know why.  
That darkness you knew, know,
well it twisted your mind into the
shape of a grown-up's, even when
you still had a young body.
That night I remember being so sad
at having to say goodbye to you,
but so proud to see you finding
your way back home.