Brian Kelly Irons

Flat Rock was a small town. I suppose it still is. I haven’t been there in years; not since I was taken away to live with my grandparents. From what I can still remember, Flat Rock was the perfect place to be a kid. Every summer we would swim out at South Fork Creek. Then at night, when it was still warm and humid, we would sit out on our front lawns and stare up at the stars while our parents got drunk and laughed at each other’s stupid jokes.

In the winter, we would put on our snow pants and pull our sleds up Beggar’s hill over and over again. On the cold walk home, we would watch as Christmas lights flickered inside warm and happy homes.