Cody
This is what I remember, now:
I had a brother named Cody.
He had perfect pitch, and looking back, might have had autism.
We all loved him.
He fell into a pool while nobody was watching and drowned.
I remember playing Super Mario Bros while it happened,
But nobody backs me up on this.
I was too young to remember right.
I was too young to remember.
I remember other people's memories.
Mom not being able to think about him without crying.
Me talking in the closed under the stairs to Cody.
I could tell you how to get from my front door to that storm closet,
But I don't remember anything that I said to him.
My siblings playing with the small blank-white dolls you could draw on when my family recieved the news,
I wonder if I had a doll, too?
Did I forget that doll?
But I remember opening the fridge on the day before your birthday,
Just a few days ago,
And seeing your cake,
And sobbing
Until the fridge started beeping.
It was like twenty-odd years of loss came out all at once.
What is there to say?
How do you continue to live,
But to carry on
Love
And cherish those you love?