If Crickets Could Scream

Mike Coleman

I remember our backyard, the three massive trees - the two evergreens were for my grandparents. “They’re always here no matter the season, so is your grandma and grandpa. Always watching over us,” as my mother would say, fighting back the minor tears that came on anytime they were brought up. The other tree was a maple, a hulking beast that stood over all the trees in our little corner of the neighborhood. My brother and I would chase our dog Sam around the yard. The sunlight reflecting off the red leaves like a stained glass church window, shining over all the innocents of the world.

I remember going inside at sunset, the smells of slow-cooked potatoes and beef, carrots and all, that were simmering in the crock-pot all day. We’d eat dinner like a family, some news station talking about 9/11, with its first anniversary approaching fast. My brother and I would finish our food, taking no notice of what the news anchors were talking about. We’d run upstairs and play videogames, and mess around like the kids we were.

I remember all the bruises and charlie-horses. How many times I needed my mom to buy me new underwear because my brother thought carrying me up the stairs by a wedgie that reached my neck was just hilarious. I guess I didn’t see the true humor till nowadays. I’d fight back but he was bigger and more physical, so those petty punches or smacks only caused more pain.

I remember all the days spent in the backyard, on our porch that my dad built. It was like it was always summer back then, everyone was always over. We had a nice little family of neighbors, and every weekend we’d be at one of the houses. My brother and I playing around with all the other kids - my parents and the rest of the adults drinking, laughing like hyenas, talking about the Trade Center, Bush, and all these strange foreign concepts I didn’t or couldn’t grasp. “The skies are blue and the bushs are green, what a beautiful world!" my seven year old self would profoundly counter.

I remember early one summer morning in the yard my father beckoned me over with his hands closed, a childish look of fascination on his face. "Come look at this, it'll be cool." He said. We walked through our yard, passing the swing-set and the drooping, browned garden. He opened the gate and I followed him through the Jackman’s backyard. It sat on the corner opposite to us, so their gazebo faced our back porch. We meandered our way around to the side of the house and stopped at a window well. I followed my father’s gaze down to it and noticed where his attention was. On an immaculately spun web, sat a thick, foreboding Wolf spider. Its legs were long and hairy –it sat completely still, seemingly unaware of its admirers. As a child, I felt an intimated curiosity. I said nothing, only gaping up at my father, waiting for his next move.

“Remember that everyone’s got to eat.” He opened his hands and I saw a pitch black cricket the size of a child’s thumb. It was jumping around frantically in his palms, but had no chance for escape. My dad moved over the window well and dropped the cricket. I watched it fall slowly through the air like a demolished building and land on the web in a stiff bounce, sticking to it. The spider didn’t move, only watching its new meal intently, until we walked away back to the house.

I remember my dog Sam chasing me around the yard. His tail and ears flapping in the wind, a poo-cigar hanging out of the corner of his mouth like something out of a cartoon. That dos was always very hungry after depositing in the yardand he always wanted to play with me after he ate. It gave really insight into why my father called cigars ‘turds’.

I remember our neighbor's fatherkicking my brother into a dresser because he wouldn’t change the TV channel. My brother ran away cring.I heardmy father charging up the stairs in quick,loud booms and grabbing the man by the back of the neck, throwing punches. He fought back and my father took the man and himself down the stairs, rolling together like a solid boulder until crashing apart into gravel at the bottom. I ran into mybedroom and found my brother sitting in bed sobbing, and sat next to him crying too, waiting for the noise to stop and my parents to find us.

I remember the moving process and how long the divorce took. The empty house and the eerie silence that filled it each morning we were there. How my mother and father would only say the necessities, empty conversations that led nothing. Former space for arguments were replaced by sighs, grunts, and an empty nothing-ness. Their incompatibility sat around the house in a thick fog.

I remember the quiet of the house one night, sitting under a card table in the TV room. The TV muted, unrecognizable faces talking about war and Tow/ers, a bunch of irrelevance that held no bearing on my life. They were giving Sam away to the neighbors - someone bought thehouse, so we had to leave, that’s all that mattered. My mom couldn’t take the dog to hersister’s, and my dad couldn't take him to his pather's condo. Tears ran down my face as I picked at the carpet. “I could take him,” I said silently. It was much too late for that carpet. “I could take him,” I said silently. It was much too late for that, though.