Beside you at the table,
I watch your hand
holding the fork
over your fish
& I feel my tie to you
pull tight,
intact,
my brother.
Your wrist,
though somewhat larger,
matches mine,
the way it always has.
Exaggerated bump of bone,
like a small egg
beneath the skin,
the way our father's wrists
are made.
I always liked that,
such visible evidence
of our belonging to him.
I'd watch his hands
above the chessboard,
in the warming house
tightening our skates.
And suddenly I feel
I need to see him.
There's so little of him left.
To sit with him
and run my thumb
along his wrist.
To check this missing
man's identity.
To feel the tie pull tight,
intact,
my father.
-- Deb Cooper