Twenty-four square inches on my dorm room wall
locked them into eternal proximity.
My brother’s toothless grin matched my granddaddy’s
as if their big blue marble eyes were two of a kind.
In pixelated sameness, they remain
riddled with illnesses invisible to the camera,
electronic capturer of the mirth
of one’s chocolate-brown tresses
and the comfort of the other’s bulging belly.
If granddaddy could catch the rest of us like minnows in the mangroves, he would make the finest turkey soup in all of Heaven A turkey concentrate to reinvent the taste.
I remember granddaddy’s yelling when I scribbled on the bedroom door with aluminum foil, when the Ravens won the game, when he read my biology textbook to see what had changed, when he explained the news with an educator’s finesse, when college admissions officers validated my potential when he had validated it all along.
I don’t remember his turkey soup, though. My brother could never digest it, and I was far too picky back then.
My brother won’t be at the service to honor his memory; he can’t fly to Baltimore while in recovery. Could you save him some turkey soup, granddaddy, and throw us into your next batch?