Thursday, April 18, 2013

Stitches


Stitches

Laughing at the stitches in his knee
And his elbow, and
Sometimes his ever-grinning face
My younger bro received
More self-inflicted damage
Than any daredevil we saw on TV
At age six, he rarely cried; too busy scuffling
Repeatedly seizing the day with a smirk,
Like some kind of insane Brahma bull rider
Unbridled, unburdened by tact and decorum
Barbarian, berserker, paradigm blaster
No one derived more joy from
Even the most dire, mundane moments
He was a tiny juggernaut, knowing only forward
Momentum carrying him through even
The thorniest of hedgerows
Through my baby brother went,
Scrapes, scars, stitches, and all
And always laughing.



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