Our Neil

Our Margie changed you on the floral carpet of her council house. You stared at me as you lay helplessly. I was embarrassed for you. She tended to you roughly, talking all the time; shaming you cos you weren't acting like a 'big boy'. How the hell were you supposed to do that? Living with your nan before you could walk because your dad was a druggy. He gave me one of his football trophies once. Bewildering. You were only a baby.
 
Years later you sneaked out of our Marie's, lifted the latch on the back gate. You had been stationed at another of my aunt's ‘for your own good.’ I was visiting again – a stop-over on a year out in Spain. So much to look forward to. You followed me and my mate Pete to the pub. I asked you about my Transformers you’d inherited. Marie hit the roof when we staggered back with you in tow. ‘You should be ashamed of yourselves!’ You were my cousin. I was entitled. I was going to look after you. You were only seven.
 
They waited for you at the corner. Beat you on your back again. Back among the flowers. Tyre irons I heard. She's still ashamed. You got into stolen cars, the very reason dad moved us all away. All the black-crow aunts gathered at your funeral. Silent flowers, tears, shame again. I didn’t make it. But she still loves you, and all her sons. You were only nineteen.