The Last Time I Saw My Brother

he opened his screen door
and I took him all in—blue-gray eyes,
half-smile, freshly shaven face, slippers worn
yet sturdy. We hugged and I patted
the soft plane just beneath his shoulders,
wondering why he wore a sweatshirt
on the balmy Florida morning.

He’d been our Christmas miracle.
After months of constant pain,
steroids, and delusions, he sat on
the salmon-colored sofa with his feet
firmly planted on the wood floor.
I chose my words carefully at first
until his brows relaxed, remembering
fragments of what we had shared.

I recalled our evenings when
I was in college and he had dropped out,
when over beer and pizza we dreamt
of where we’d be in ten years.
It had been a continuous theme—
him, moving west in a Buick
named Thunder with tires spinning
and “Brown Sugar” blasting,
and me, a reliable job, a little money,
babies perhaps, and a two-story house
beneath a lemon dab of moon.
How easy it was then, unaware
of the sheer force of what waited ahead.

He stood and considered if we should go
to lunch, conscious of crowds,
air contaminated with germs,
grimy fingerprints on tables and doors.

There is a heaviness in the plain truth.
Acceptance, a tequila-laced burning
in our throats.