Brother
by Jefferson Goolsby
The path up and down is one and the same.
— Heraclitus
In his shabby long-term care room
With broken blinds
And patched but never painted walls
He looks like an old man but seems like a baby
No teeth left
Struggles hand to mouth
Sulky without explanation
Emotional waves rolling in and back out to
Silence
A cipher
Unable to walk
To say we told you so would have no reward
We’re just supposed to watch this
Slowly unfold
On visits I bring the nursing staff
Cheesecakes or pastries or cookies
That they devour in the hidden staff room.
In the hallways I thank everyone for their help.
Before all of this
Before our mom passed away
I was getting angry with him one day.
Until he left the room angry himself.
“Don’t be angry,” she said to me.
“But mom, we should be angry.
He’s going to die if he doesn’t do something.”
“But it doesn’t help to be angry,” she answered.
“Then what do you want me to do?”
“Just be his friend.”
That’s a tall order.
After hearing 10,000 refusals.
Another 10,000 denials.
I’m tired.
I’m done.
Last week they cut off his left leg below the knee
As part of the horror show.
He’s getting smaller
But never changes size
In my mind.
Jefferson Goolsby is an unrepentant lefty, writer, and intermedia artist primarily sourced from Northern California and the Pacific Northwest, but has resided in various overseas geographies for more than eight years. He is currently based in Philadelphia. This poem was published in Poems of the Oakland Writer’s Nest.
