Burritos in Wisconsin

After my brother divorced, he came every summer

to my house in Wisconsin with his kids, making

the long journey from San Francisco to Madison

as if he were coming home, the week with us respite 

in his fractured world. I’d meet them at the foot 

of the escalator for Arrivals—tall blond man 

and his two little kids, Gabe with his tight curls 

and green eyes, Fiona in ringlets and a pink polka 

dot dress, a stuffed toy called “Picture Pig” clutched 

beneath her arm, the family photo encased in plastic 

on its plush flank a perfect quartet of loss. 

The kids ran into my arms before I hugged 

my brother, his blue Oxford-cloth shirt perfectly 

pressed, as if he’d bought it just for the trip. I’d looked 

for signs his kidney disease was worse—his face 

drawn, hairline receding, the skin on his hands 

and arms onion paper-thin after decades on steroids. 

When we hugged, a little shy at first, I felt Peter 

relax, his gruff guard coming down. All week 

we did summer things—swimming for hours, 

catching fireflies at dusk, visiting caves and steam

trains and farms where the kids fed baby goats bottle 

after bottle of milk as if there were no end to plenty. 

All week, my brother, who’d caught Epstein-Barr 

from a patient and couldn’t recover, slept until noon. 

And all week, I cooked, especially my burritos, 

with their creamy spinach filling, yellow rice, 

and a crisp salad his favorite. “This is so good,” 

he’d say. “This is the best food I’ve ever had.” 

I thought of his words after he died, as I searched 

his house, looking for papers I needed to manage 

his affairs. A stray page from his disability claim 

application documented fears he’d be unable to care 

for his children—true at the end, though they 

were older by then—he barely able to rise 

from the living room bed, the house stinking 

of garbage and piss, loneliness thick as dust, 

despair I can’t forget, no matter how hard I try 

to shake it off. I want to remember us the way 

we were those summers, late sunlight warming

our faces, the picnic table covered with the red 

and white checked cloth, vases of coneflowers 

and Queen Anne’s lace picked by the kids, first 

stars just coming out, the yard filled with fireflies. 

And my brother, eating one burrito after another, 

filled for a moment with everything he needed.

Alison Townsend, Rattle #73 Fall 2021