I don't see my brother much anymore...
Not like thirty-five years ago
when I was much younger,
and he seemed much clearer.
Those days he'd barge
into my life hourly,
often even more,
whether or not
I could tolerate his arrival.
Sometimes I longed to talk,
but other times
I hated his ruining my life that way,
making me remember
things better forgotten.
He'd show up all unconcerned,
giving me that younger brother smile of his,
looking up at me
questioning me
destroying what little sanity
I had managed to knit together.
Twenty years ago
his visits grew less frequent...
I got too involved
with my own living
to spare much time for his interruptions.
Still, he'd arrive unannounced
when I'd least expect,
hammering into my life,
shattering the peace
I had somehow plastered together
since his last visit.
I don't see my brother much anymore.
But even now,
I'd return every day
of the thirty-six years
since he killed himself
just to touch his hand again.
Or maybe
just to scream at him.
living...loving...writing
