Shane McBride

Shawna Secor

I watched Shane play with my brother outside my bedroom window.
He skillfully built forts for army men out of my pet bunny’s waste
As my brother gagged,
And I secretly admired his creativity.

Hungry, they came inside brushing sweat off their brows,
And Shane’s gaze landed on the monument I had created.
My delicate five-year-old fingers shaped a carton of bee bees
Into his name: Shane McBride.

He blushed and continued to the kitchen.
Once fed, they trotted by me again and Shane asked,
“Do you want to play?”
Blood rushed to my face as my brother held the door for me.

Our friendships grew
As we played with plastic army men, then skateboards, then motorcycles.
The three of us revved up our bikes on summer afternoons.
My brother took care of himself, but Shane and I had a ritual:

He tightened my chin strap, and I laced up his boots.
One time he couldn’t untie my handiwork,
And I had to use my teeth to loosen the knot.
Shane laughed so hard that his eyes looked like they were full of tears.
I wanted to stay that close to him forever.

But one day my brother said, “We’re not going today.”
The next time I saw Shane, he was under a flat, ochre sandstone.
Shane McBride 1974-1989