Edge of the Storm

He left without saying goodbye, shouting at our father as he packed his bags

and I was once again a little girl watching her brother spiral out of control.

It’s been a couple of weeks but his memory haunts me each time

I see the grey-blue waters or hear the soft strum of a guitar.

Only a city away and yet it feels like the ground has split

and a cavern now yawns between us.

We are held together by a single thread tied around our fingers

They say things get better with time, but I’m scared this string is too frayed.

I used to imagine his anger as a tempest that would tire itself out eventually.

I was a tree in the storm, bending but never breaking

because if we could get through this one then we could fix this.

But time has a habit of making even the strongest things fragile.

And the day after the storm broke I felt like I would shatter into a million pieces

Maybe for the first time, I told him what it was really like to weather his tempest

Buffeted by winds so strong that I feared my roots would not hold me.

We talk sometimes but you haven’t visited.

I keep waiting for you to work through it like you always do

But if I’m not the one to make the first move, would you?

If I tell you that it hangs in the air like a storm cloud

A pressure that sits on our chests that gets heavier

We stood in the kitchen, mother and I, making up for lost time

And in my joy, I turned to share with him but found only empty air.

I was left with the afterimage of what we once had.

On a day when we were giving thanks, I found myself fumbling

It’s hard to feel grateful when half your family is in disrepair.