Brother

 

I see you through

the window outside

the morning after

a heavy snowfall

shoveling my walk

and driveway,

clearing a path

from door to garage.

Each scoop

scrapes audibly,

your breath blooms,

your nose drips—

our father’s Jewish nose—

your glasses fog, cheeks flush.

At 72 you’re balding

but lean and strong,

good genes, simple diet,

never smoked.

I tell you, to have

a man around

who takes care

of things like this

for me is lovely.

I own a snowblower

but you said

you’d rather do it

by hand. For exercise.

You may not know

how to call an Uber

or turn on the coffee

maker, but I trust you

with my life,

even more so

with my death.

You are my chosen power

of attorney, the one

with composure enough

to pull the plug

if I cannot speak

for myself.

 

When we were kids—

me eight, you fifteen—

you hid inside

my bedroom closet

and waited until

I got busy before

jumping out

with a roar

like a golem.

I screamed, we laughed.

So now that Dad is gone

and Mom is in care,

you stay with me

your unmarried

childless little sister

who welcomes

your infrequent visits

like an illuminated

all-night diner sign

on a dark highway.

I make a casserole,

buy the kind of beer

you like. Tomorrow

you fly home

to your wife.

I resist the urge

to cling, wish for more

snow so you will

have to stay longer

as the one person

I can count on

to assure

I have a way out.