Brizzles Basket

I’m in front of the TV helping my sister Marsha punch out paper doll clothes when I hear my Mom scream, “Oh my fucking God!” I look up.

Holding Margie, her youngest child just three years old, against her chest, Mom runs full-throttle down the hall, through the living room and out our front door. My oldest brother Howard jumps up, bangs out behind her, and a second later I shoot out behind him — already Mom’s at the end of our building. Clearly something bad is wrong. (more…)