–November 11, 1961
I remember the night my father died
wind-blown snow raged at my bedroom window.
But now I read online that it was dry
and calm all week. I can still see in slow
motion the way my brother turned his back,
took off his glasses, and cried as he heard
the news over the phone. I see the black
frames flicker with firelight and hear the word
dead for myself as it leaks from his ear,
though now I can see in a photograph
that his frames from those days were clear.
I would even swear that I heard him laugh
then, a hacking sound that I keep inside,
forgotten till the night my brother died.