The American Dream by Abbie Galipeau

The boy down the road had barely finished blowing out his candles before they came knocking. His sister screamed as they hauled him away, frosting still on her lips. He came home later that year, but delivered by two soldiers with their hats in hand, crossed over their hearts. Again his sister screamed as they handed her the box. She didn’t stop until her lungs gave out, the second her brother was in the ground. She stayed by his grave, getting high off poppies that grew beside his headstone and over his body. The high gave out when her lungs did. They ruled her death as self-inflicted, and they threw stones at her family until they heard the crack of bones. Now as I sit in the sandbox, watching fireworks explode in the sky, I listen as the old man next door screams after every eruption, praying to God that they don’t find him. I watch the colors of the sky—red, white, and a beautiful blue.