Hold this humble wreath

I know you visited me last week.

It had been a long time.
I can still never quite understand your meaning. 

Why you come.

Why you come at all. When you come.

When you died, you broke into so many pieces.
Some of them, I haven't seen.
Some ashes do become ashes. The earth forever gracious.
One piece, I was frightened, would not leave me in peace. Maybe would not know peace.
But I do not speak of him.

I considered going to the cemetery today. It seemed like too much.
I wanted flowers. But the walk inside the store felt ridiculous.
I drove to a coffee shop to work, instead. But I didn't get out of the car.

Our parents still keep the plants from the funeral on the kitchen table. In four years, they haven't been moved, as far as I can tell.
They were dying of dryness. Now they are over-watered. Just like when you were alive.

After all of this time, I wonder why you visit.

Why you come.

Why you come at all. When you come.

I know, I did not protect you.

I still drive past the sledding hill, and you are the one I shared it with. We put on our snow pants together, carved our pumpkins together, woke up at dawn for Santa, together.
Children share the greatest intimacies. 
It was before we knew that separations exist.
We were each others language for the world.

And then, I stopped.

T
ranslating your words for our parents.
Spending my weekend mornings cuddled beside you,
as we, took in,
 the road runner,
 and coyote, on their,
 endless, quests,
in the desert.
I left you beside my Barbies and Hot Wheels, and gently shut the door with a slam that knocked the icicles off the roof.

We didn't know it locked.
We were children.
What did we know.

I stopped.
And after that.
We shouted.
To see if it would help.
But no one could hear.
No one could hear anything anymore. 
The door deadened all the sounds.

What was the point of it all?
I hate the pictures of you from after.
Your face begins to look angular, pocked, and cold.

I saved myself, I know.
I am not sure I knew it then.
But I know it now.

Unloading the trains, taking the suitcases, I pointed you toward the showers.
Figured I had my own prayers to say.
I know what I did.
I was only a child.
So.

We marched on separately into adulthood.

Maybe my face carries it, too.
Maybe my face buries it, too.

I forgave us both when you were still here.
But I hear the chair in the next room rocking.
I know better than to check if I am alone in the house. 
And I wonder why you come here still.

I cut branches off of the burning bush.
To tie them up and bring to you.

What could we say though. 
I bet nobody asks your advice anymore.

It would seem dangerous or sacrilegious.
Not everyone knows about the pieces that broke apart. 

But the part of you that comes, the part of you that comes, I remember.
I remember, and I wonder, if after all this time, you have things to teach.
I've never asked.
But I wonder. 

And wherever I take these branches today.
I trust that you will know.
They are for you, of course, for you. Of course.

If the door cannot be opened.
Please little brother
Let it at least,
I am asking,
just hold this humble wreath.