A Tribute to my Brother Charlie

Black      white

chalky      marbly

butterscotch swirl      bowling ball

the sound of a bowling alley      the sound of a powerful waterfall

falling lacy waters      flying insects in the breeze

deep blue sky of summer      deep lead clouds of summer

wet and chill and the smell after summer a thundershower      bees on clover and being careful

grass in toes that gets tracked inside      white carpet of youth

I miss Charlie, who was allergic to bees, tracked the wet grass onto mom’s white carpet, watched waterfalls and insects with me in every sky, had our first independences together backpacking and riding our bikes seven miles to El Camino to bowl; my ten-speed was stolen there. Ice cream back then had swirls in it. Marble was a novelty but chalk was not. Nothing is white or black. Not life, not death. All stories lead to Charlie.

Happy birthday in two hours. You’d be sixty-six; I know, because I’ll be sixty-five this year.

I think of you even when I don’t.