Outside, It Is Snowing
a poem.
My hand is holding my brother's. His chest moves but it is not his breath. My hand tilts pouring my homemade broth into the stew mix. I crouch to the floor, sweeping my cat's favorite toy from beneath the bookshelf. I crumple to the floor when the nurses announce to us he will not live. It is obvious. But not to me, to whom it is clear that my brother will live, and outlive me, as clear as I will outlive my cat. The tile is cold. The wall is blank. I hand my cat his tattered toy. I stir the stew. I am telling my brothers over a rancid pot of sauerkraut that we are space explorers, and whoever finishes their rations first holds the highest rank of command. I slip my officer's ring onto my finger. My brother is crying, hiccup tears, apologizing for asking me to buy him a ring from a South Korean stand. The gold on my finger is cold and heavy. I slip it off. The chorus of Les Misérables sings, Look down— I lean toward my friend, apologizing for making us late. My brother leans toward me from a church stool, as our father calls for a volunteer. Look down, he sings, don't look him in the eye. I laugh to myself beside my friend, clap too loudly. I don't mind that the seat next to me is empty for the song. The walls of my house are warm, and bright. Outside, it is snowing. I tackle my brother into the snowbank of his childhood home. Kind hands are pulling up the carpet and patching a bullet hole in the wall. Mom gives us a carrot, two stones, and a line of raisins, and we press them into the snowman's face. My brother's hands are cold.


Thank you for sharing your brave words, Shige. I could feel an echo of your ache.
Shige’ I felt every moment with you!!! 💗