For Tim
I followed you anywhere: up
the forbidden attic stairs, carrying
candle stubs and cinnamon crisps;
down the driveway to steal
my report card from the mailbox too;
under mammoth spruces in deep snow,
to pretend we were polar explorers,
pioneers, whatever you wanted.
Into swimming pools you swore
we’d enter together, though
you always let my hand go at the edge.
Once, through the maze of Cleveland
where our grandparents lived:
up and down strange streets for hours,
across a construction site,
mud so thick it sucked my shoes off.
On and on, my only bearings
your resolute shoulders and the memory
of our chocolate milk parties
in the back yard, us laughing
till we tumbled our table in the grass.
And when we finally made it back,
when Grandma held your face
in her hands, said she’d been afraid
she’d never see you again,
then sent me out, scolding
about my muddy shoes,
I didn’t even hate you for it.
