the small crescent shape tucked beside her chest

all softness of his head and breath

arrived new this hour

in the fall of snow

we remember autumn color 

red, passing miscarriage

red, lost in fall time

red blur inside

and then came the silence

and then came one gold candle 

and then came the light

and then came you 

My brother is sick as a dog. I knock on the door softly and poke my head inside the room with pine walls. He looks like himself and someone different altogether. Beyond weak exhaustion and a flash of misery, he holds a look of someone needing company. 

My hand is chilled from swimming in the lake but I still press on his forehead when he asks if he has a fever. “You’re warm.” I confirm.

“Would you want to read out loud to me?” He croaks and slowly moves sideways on the bed to make room, heaving and making whooshing sounds. The Two Towers by Tolkien rests on the bedside table. I reach for the book and pull a quilt over my lap, leaning against crumpled pillows. He wags his head and even his long hair looks limp.

For years he has told me to read the series but I haven’t begun until today.

Characters in armor peel off the pages as my brother shivers and quakes. He pulls a towel over his eyes, lying flat on his back, tossing from hot-cold and cold-hot. He staggers in and out of the room. I sprinkle ibruprophen into his palm and we cycle in humor to buoy this absurdity.

A masterpiece slowly fills the room and distracts him line by line. I too, am captivated. The light outside the back window fades. My brother’s breathing finally becomes a smooth tempo long enough for me to wonder if he’s asleep, but he murmurs when I read a sentence of gold. 

“To cast aside regret and fear. To do the deed at hand. . . If we fail, we fall. If we succeed-then we will face the next task.”

As if he can read my mind when I pause before reciting full pages of Elvish song lyrics he says quietly, “You can skip the songs. I always do.” 

Cracker crumbs and half full water glasses may be crammed beside an empty bucket and tissue cemetery but we are marveling in a golden hall. A long black stone hearth is ablaze. Lavender star-strewn fields beyond the fortress wave gently like the tattered flag. 

A horse gallops through the bedroom glistening white. A sword lands on the pillow carved in silver. A valley tumbles below the tucked sheets. The last pages in the chapter fold like heavy branches and the air is full of quiet attention as I turn out the light.

My brother nods under the towel and pats my hand to say thank you, as the company of characters pass beside him and follow me into the hall. His voice is from a far distance. 

“Good.”

I’ll never forgot how you were the first one to jump off the cliff

you flew like a dove off the sheer edge,

hair rippling in gold streamers mere inches 

from black, storm thrashed rock

before our stunned guide could issue a warning

you were eighteen with bold blood

dragon and dove 

fire and feather

soaring into the ocean

entirely alone

I wonder what you heard along the way, what the 

salt waves and thrill

whispered inside your rapid heart

before I leapt after your shadow below

navy waves

happy birthday, dragon and dove

someday I'll tell your children,

mama flew off a cliff like a bird

in a sky of crystal clouds

she must have heard something special on the edge

that made her believe she would be alright

so she chased the sound off the cliff 

until all she saw was 

blue

If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me. Psalm 139:9-10

In his hand are the depths of the earth; the heights of the mountains are his also. The sea is his, for he made it, and his hands formed the dry land. Psalm 95:4-5

I wish you had told me

you didn't want the plant I gave you 

when you left. 

It wasn't just any plant, it was an indestructible one

perfect for your windowless office and 

no green thumb. 

We had laughed at the label together

that boasted: PLANT OF STEEL

I thought our friendship was indestructible and 

steel proof as well. 

I was not afraid to work through hard things in your windowless rooms,

you weren't afraid of mine.  

I think that's why we lasted for so long

until you left, wordless, and put me

in a predicament. 

The plant. 

There it was, pointedly abandoned on the small wooden table.

After time, I clutched it and hovered over the trash can

ready to discard it like you had done so,

in a path of totality. 

I was so bothered. 

Bothered by you.

Bothered by the plant being left. 

Bothered by the thought of the plant dying.

Bothered that I had to decide.

I brushed my thumb along the dusty leaves. 

The plant had a pulse. It was yours. 

I felt I was throwing our friendship away

I couldn't. 

Instead, I watered the plant.

I rotated the pot for balanced immersion in the sun.

I thought maybe we would rotate back into orbit.

No one talks about the tiredness of losing a friend. 

The sadness, most likely. The anger, perhaps. 

But not the tiredness. 

After I kept the plant, I was tired a long time. 

The next summer I repotted the plant alongside my neighbor. He knew nothing of the plant's history. 

He simply admired the new ceramic planter and scrounged up rocks for me to place at the base. 

He talked and talked. Somehow, it was comforting to have someone there to watch the transplant. 

I've moved since the repotting. 

The plant has nearly doubled in size, which it never did before.

The bother I once had has receded and left something else

that I discovered, tucked inside the tiny green canopy

that has just opened, gleaming in emerald this week. 

The indestructible plant and I 

still believe in you.