Today, a year ago, my brother was shot
twice, once in the face and in the side.
In the kitchen, my wife took the call.
She stiffened. I knew it was bad.
She handed me the phone.
I braced against the counter,
spread my feet and place my palms
on top of the surface.
It was the social worker from his local hospital.
She asked if I was ready for bad news?
I dug in.
My brother had been shot. Twice.
The floor lifted and swung
as the air left my lungs.
I sunk to my forearms.
She continued.
He was struck in the head
and in the side.
The room swung and dropped.
I became detached.
At best, my brother was brain dead.
And then, she said, "He's pretty pissed.
We had to sedate him to keep him from cursing."
The world returned.
My brother is stubborn and strong.
I knew he would be okay.