Late Morning.
I was still in my white nightgown.
And James had drawn me down to sit on his lap.
And I was looking over his shoulder
through the hall into the living room.
And he was looking over my shoulder into the trees
through the open window, I imagine.
And we sat like that for a few minutes
without saying much of anything.
My cheek pressed lightly against his cheek.
And my brother John was dead.
Suddenly, close and distinct, it seemed finished.
As if time were a room I could gaze clear across.
Four years since I lifted his hand from the sheets on his bed
and it cooled in my hand.
A little breeze through the open window, James's warm cheek,
a brightness in the windy trees, as I remember.
Crumbs and dishes still on the table.
And a small glass bottle of milk,
and an open jar of raspberry.