“I want to listen to the man tonight,” I said nonchalantly, leaning back in my rocking chair. I glanced over to Mama, who seemed a world away. With needles, and thread, and table cloths strewn about tables. She sighed, her fingers artfully dancing around one another in a timeless ballet. Needle, thread, tablecloth. Tablecloth, needle, thread. “If Pops is in the mood,” she replied, her voice distant as the indigo sky spanned out about the swaying trees and warming bayou air. A small, wooden raft trundled by. “And it’s up to the man, Jackson, if he wants to play.” I shrugged, grabbing hold of our shambled roof and yanking myself to a stand, nodding in satisfactory as the rocking chair rolled back and slammed headlong into our small swamp cabin, sending the precarious boards shuddering in protest. I leapt down to the muddy banks, swatting away an assault of mosquitoes. “He plays when I want him to,” I pressed, the brown-greenish sheen of river water and soppy dirt seeping into my hunting boots. “And when I want to sleep, he stops.” I hesitated. “I think he likes me.” Mama took a pretty second to cast me a quizzical look. “That’s the most fine dandy and rediculous idea I’ve ever heard with these two ears.” She returned back to her knitting. “Pops should be nearby, maybe on Elkdead Island. Why don’t you take the skiff over?” I grinned. “I knew you’d come around!” I cried, leaping into our humble two seater skiff and unknotting the rope in a supersonic leap. Pops’ favorite hunting stop was Elkdead Island, and on a good day, he’d return back to the cabin with a hunk of deer meat and some camouflage paint smudged over his nose that Mama would fuss over for the entirety dinner meal until he washed up. It wouldn’t take much too long to find him in the shallow sawgrass. The island didn’t offer much in the way of tree cover, naturally making the job of gator hunting much cleaner than on the other side of the river. I was out onto the river with a good shove of the arms and started on my way. Oars in, oars out. Oars in, oars out. And hope none of the gators are about. Elkdead Island was a fifteen minute skiff ride across the winding river. Weaving like Mama’s fingers through the bayou, easing along with everywhere to go but nowhere to be. Sometimes I’d hear the man marching through the forestry beside me, and I’d ask him to play, and he’d stop and he’d duck back into the trees before I could get a good glimpse. Nonetheless, I reached the narrow dock at Elkdead Island in decent timing, roped the skiff back up, and waded onto shore. The sawgrass was singed by a recent fire, although it was already rebounding to give the gators a decent place to hide. I doubted the hunt would be easy, but Pops had his ways. Crunched around in the grass, sometimes ripped out blades even when they tore up his palms and fingers and nails till he came home with a mess of an arm but a meal for the evening. Carefully, I pulled down my jeans till there wasn’t no room for the grass to crawl up my breeches and sting me with it’s catching thorns. I leapt over grasses and into fine clearings, keeping an eye out for my father on the island. I found him a quarter, maybe half mile in, stalking a gator away from the water. It looked like he’d already caught us the meal tonight, was just doing some pleasure hunting. I hated the words, pleasure hunting. It was wrong and it was crude and it was horrible, but Pops knew his rights and he didn’t let me stand between him and his gators. Shaking my head in disdain, I trudged out to the dock again and looked out over the small bay of water. I dipped my hands into the water. “Play,” I ordered, looking around the area. “Please. Play.” And, like a ghost slaved unto me, the music floated from the tree line. I closed my eyes as the sound pierced the waning sun, easing it into the horizon. Sending me into the sky in place. Arousing the stars and forcing them through the dark sheen of night. The notes, they slashed and they slaughtered, but they loved and they cared, but they lost and they died. I brought my hand up from the mind, deciding not to mind the mess on my shirt mama would surely have a fit over when I sat down for evening supper. Instead, I pulled out the small locket, dimly shimmering as the sun coursed through its links, it’s strings. Winding. Weaving. Like Mama’s fingers on the mantle. Like Pop’s on the shotgun. Like the man’s, dancing across the harmonica and bringing me back, every time, to the brother that I loved. I opened the small locket, watching my heart split open and my lungs split open and my life split open seeing his face. I slowly looked back up to the bayou, watching the easing water. Everywhere to go but nowhere to be. My brother was the bayou. He left his papers at home and eh wandered into the wild with his harmonica and his heart, and let the freedom take him away. I shut the locket as the boards creaked threateningly on the dock. Something grabbed me by the shoulders. I whirled around, fists curled for a fight… “Hey, Jackson.” And there stands the man, a harmonica wedged into his teeth. And he’s my brother. And he’s got those kind, rich chocolate eyes and the short, now thinning red hair, and that same locket. That same locket as mine, shimmering under the sun such as mine. I collapsed into his arms. “I’ll come,” I sobbed, grasping his solid arms. “I’ll come!” He laughed, letting me go. “No,” he said. “We’ll come. Together.” I smiled softly, watching Pops chase the poor gator across the island. Mama fingering her mantle. And I looked back to the skiff. “Together,” I repeated.