Published on: 6/11/2008
"Who wants to take his shoes?" the nurse asks.
Then hands them to my brother
who cradles them in his arms close to his chest
the way I saw him hold his son for the first time.
When we wake in the morning,
the heaviness in our bones
will tell us this wasn't a dream.
We'll be unable to wake ourselves
from the sadness.
But tonight we are here with him
to kiss our fingertips
and press them against his forehead,
to close his eyes,
to pull the crisp, white sheet up over his face,
to take home his shoes.