He whistles while he walks, tells me
it keeps the bears at bay, but I imagine
he was a songbird in another life.
She is style and sensibility, tells me
my hair is a perfect rat’s nest as she cuts
through the knots with a wetted comb.
I am five years old, sleeping over
in the craft room where the roof slopes
down, staying up late to trace my finger
over shapes in the popcorn ceiling.
In the morning, she’ll steam bacon
in the microwave because she likes it chewy.
He’ll sit at the table by the window
with half a grapefruit and the newspaper
open to the Sports section.
Years from now, I’ll come home from college,
park my car in the garage, find her sitting
by the lamp, reading. She’ll wear her wrinkles
like bracelets, short white hair carefully
combed to hide the thin spots. We won’t talk
about him anymore. At least, not often.
When we do, she’ll remind me she’s a
one-man woman and won’t ever play nurse
to anyone else. I’ll remember the way
my brother held his hand the night before
he died. I’ll remember standing in the doorway,
ears ringing. Confused by the small,
frail body in the hospice bed. The office light
flickering with a pale white hum. The same
room where I once climbed onto his lap,
buried my face in his scratchy flannel shirt,
faint cigarette smell seeping
past his cloak of Juicy Fruit and cinnamon gum.