It is too warm for snow, so we three discuss
snow. When he was nine, my brother had a sledding accident
that injured his kidney. A teacher at his school
took photographs of the stretcher being dragged up
the long, white hill by a cable. She gave these photographs
to my mother, who found the actions of this teacher
extremely insensitive. My brother says it wasn’t.
In front of the TV, we try
to cloud-seed the green-screened weather maps
with all this talk. I start in about the blizzard that dropped
20 feet of snow on the East Coast, burying my father
on I-95 near Virginia’s low border, where (I think)
he froze in his car. We are poor historians, keep
incomplete records of the number of times
my father ended himself, forget
who has responsibility for which file.
There are more things to remember
than happened, and we are all ill, encumbered, listening
to static for a special report.
My brother touches his side (which still sometimes
aches without warning).