Who knows how many years it lay hidden,
slumbering in that corner of the desk drawer,
framed within its oak walls and shadow,
around it, the constellations of dust
forming and reforming in a world which
from here must seem only a rumor.
When I retrieved them from the photo shop,
there wasn't much to see -- shapeless
clusters of dark and light merging uneasily,
bursts of summer sun breaking through,
or what might have been a face, or a shoulder,
impossible to distinguish one from the other.
This is the way of all memory, I imagine.
But one image survived to show you,
standing in the doorway, your back turned
to the camera, that long black coat
concealing your frame, Christmas lights
on the tree blurred as if in motion.
I like to think you were smiling, your unshaven
face tilted slightly to one side, half hidden,
your secrets, as always, held closely.
From this distance, it is impossible to tell
if you were leaving or just arriving,
so fitting for you, brother, who could not
stay here long, but waited patiently
until today to pass through once more.
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