On the marble tombstone
A fatigued image of myself
reflects the aging lines of grief
that has taken me in its grasp during the last week.
Watching the sunken form of my sister beside me convulse
I shake off the sadness and pick up my tears that I could never cry.
The sound of the rustling autumn leaves shifts me back to my childhood
when my siblings and I had made a mountain of the leaves and
dove off the tree branches in our front yard.
Wanting that memory to come alive,
I glance back at the mound of freshly laid dirt
realizing that in two years my older brother
would no longer be older than me.
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