At My Brother’s House
“I can remember Dad being mad at you,
but I can never remember him being mad
at me.” It’s fall, the first real fall I’ve seen
in 30 years. Light streaks through the radiant
forest. One of the tallest trees close to the house
I don’t know what to say. I’m startled.
Is it true? Once Dad, breathing harder
and harder, chased me round and round
the dining room table bellowing “Stop”
at the top of the tenor his voice broke
into when he was angry. I was not
about to stop. Finally, he started to laugh
and sat down. I sat too, but on the other
side of the table. Did he never chase Bill?
And what is Bill saying, really saying?
Is he sad at not being chased, or does he
want me to know he was the favored
brother? Down the road, Elizabeth’s Path
will wind in spring through wildflowers.
It is named for Bill’s wife. Bill’s house
is at the end of the road, beautiful in these
beautiful woods – but lonely, now, Bill says,
surrounded by riches from Elizabeth’s
family. Except there is a coffee table
my father bought because he loved
the grain of the fine wood. And I wonder
about me. What about me? Do I want
to prove I was the favored one? Do I want
to admit I envy Bill the coffee table?
to admit I envy Bill the coffee table?