Choice

​​ For decades, I couldn’t hear the sound of fireworks on New Year’s Eve without bursting into tears. The song Auld Lang Syne stirred anger within its first few measures. Celebrating the holiday was simply not in my repertoire.
In the early-morning hours of New Year’s Day 1990, my brother froze to death. He most likely heard the fireworks heralding the end of one decade, the dawning of another as he was crawling out of an icy river onto the bank of an island in the middle of our city. He was exactly one month shy of turning 25.

Find the rest of my story, published by Anti-Heroin Chic for their winter 2019 issue here.