My brother
dead for thirty years
I scream at him
still.
My father dead almost as long
I often smile
touching his tools
thinking of him.
My mother
dying beside me
how will I remember her?
I never knew my old brother
dead at twenty-one
or my old father
dead at fifty-six
(although I didn't think
fifty-six so young
then).
But I know my old mother,
eighty four
last birthday.
Tomorrow
how will I dream of her?
Young like my brother
my father
or old like today?
Young I hope
just
sometimes old
as a warning
of what not to become.
living...loving...writing
