We looked like that.
Proud nine year old, awkward
holding three month me, a treasure
until five years later
pest to your teenage hormones.
You, proud new daddy
me, awkward gawky sister,
new aunt in braces
and lollipop bra.
You, my tuxedo handsome usher
black shiny shoes on white sheeted aisle.
Me, excited oh-so-young bride
barely noticed your proud eyes and smile.
You, father of five
tee ball games and packed full car.
Held your newborn niece,
gentleness on your face.
No photos last time
you so cold and me so flushed.
In front of multitudes
you absolutely still, I wept you.
Pictures stopped. Not you with me,
no you with anyone.
Not in anger, joy or silliness,
just stopped.
Death’s reality lives
in happy photo albums.
Same people, changed by age,
with no you.
My brother, nine years older than me. Lost suddenly, too soon at 51.
“Not to worry” he’d say on the phone. Love these pictures. Love his family.









