the right way to speak

The first time my brother says ain't my mother pulls a branch from the willow tree growing down the hill at the edge of our backyard. As she slips her closed hand over it, removes the leaves, my brother begins to cry because the branch is a switch now no longer beautifully weeping at the bottom of the hill. It whirs as my mother whips it through the air and down against my brother's legs. You will never, my mother says, say ain't in this house. You will never say ain't anywhere. Each switching is a warning to us our words are to remain crisp and clear. We are never to say huh? ain't