Monday, July 12, 2010

Old House

My brother used to play a melody
That travelled through the house.

You could hear it from the kitchen
To the basement to the garage.

No matter where you were
It seemed to find you.

And, on the darkest days
It was a light for me.

The rhythm was a path to follow
Toward something less surreal.

His six strings were defibrillators
Shocking life into my heart.

In that way, my brother, having never took a course
Had certified himself in CPR.

He healed with music
And his guitar case was an ambulance.

I’m not sure, today, if he ever meant it
To be more than practice for a show

Or, if he truly saw a need for song
In the eyes of those around him.

But, I know now, the emptiness
That condemns a silent house.

And I recollect the somber day
I buried him with his guitar.

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