Today, I remember my brother, who died in Iraq in 2004.
21 years. 21 years without Edward Carman.
What Was Him
Every day at 4:17…
I remember what was him:
We lay on the floor in front of the TV,
eyes half closed, unblinking
while we master Dragon Warrior
on the first Nintendo console;
wrestling on Saturday mornings,
covering holes in the wall
with old hair-band posters;
throw-down brawls in the living room
when we were latch-key
and free to become whatever the streets
had in mind for our stories.
I won’t tell mom if you won’t.
Every day at 4:17…
I remember what was him:
The only thing connected to me
in the chaos we had no choice in:
the distant lights like warp-speed stars
along the late-night highway,
our faces inches apart
on the backseat heap
of garbage bags of things
we actually had to take with us.
Whatever bed, whatever floor,
wherever was next,
together,
we just had to keep moving forward
until we found more,
made things better than this.
We’ll be okay.
Every day at 4:17…
I remember what was him:
In the outfield on the opposing team
catching my fly at his backside,
four dance steps smashing my pride;
running away with other boys,
quick evading me
so they could sneak magazines;
but then he clapped the loudest
when I hit the homerun mark on the wall;
came back and picked me up
when I slipped on the gravel
and fell trying to catch them all;
and when the boys were gone,
he showed me his collection
of naked women.
Just don’t tell mom.
Every day at 4:17…
I remember what was him:
On the other end of the phone
waiting to leave,
reminding me that he was him
and there was no need for worrying;
out of reach and not knowing
if the news reports were about him
or someone else’s “him”;
then getting that call mid-morning,
and then watching the clock on the wall
for weeks,
waiting for my “him” returned in pieces;
letting him bury some of our history,
but keeping the rest with me.
I won’t let you go.
Every day at 4:17…
