Angel Day

My little brother’s death day

the anniversary of the day he died,

another moment set in time

reminding his living loved ones

that he’s gone – dead’s the word.

               

My father told the younger siblings

                that he had left,

                gone to heaven, I think,

                but they still cried because

                my father was crying, because

                heaven sounded like every other fairy tale,

                and they knew he was in the room

                and somehow went to heaven land

                without ever coming down the stairs

the same stairs my father didn’t notice

staining with his son’s crimson memory.

Both parents found ways to blame themselves,

to explain what happened,

to conquer the immovable Why

that often plagues us still.

I saw the note but never the gun,

except once years before in my father’s mini-van

as he was taking it out and placing it in a safe place.

               

The gun’s in an evidence locker somewhere now.

                My brother’s ashes are spread at the old farm in Oklahoma.

                I call my parents this day

                every year

                to say

I love you,

I miss him too.