My Brother is My Hero
When someone means a lot to me, I tend to write about them, usually in poem.
My brother means a lot to me,
but as of yet I have not written a poem about him.
I don't know why,
maybe
because
I don't know how to begin, how
to sum him up in rhythmic phrases or simply because
I just let the task slip away like I do a lot of things – putting them off,
procrastinating – to which he would look me dead in the eye and say,
“Lexie, that is no excuse”.
And I'm sorry. So I'll make it up to him now:
Matt is my elder brother 22 in age and
somehow
still 16 at heart.
Fearless but not reckless unless
you count the time he rolled his car with
windows crashed and seats crushed in
but still
he found
a gap between the crumpled wad of steel
like a crumpled piece of paper,
he stood
aloof and leaving
with nothing more than a few bruises
faint and hardly visible,
leaving behind as well
the subtle smell of leaking gasoline.
And true
he has his ways of finding trouble.
But just as equal-
maybe more-
he knows the art of swift aversion
evasion
escape by a sliver of a hair.
He's slick - he knows it.
He smirks - he knows the ropes.
But what he knows more-
what he knows best-
is how to sneak a smile
from your face so caked in dismay
for whatever reason being. You
can't help but grin from ear to ear-
genuine-
when he
speaks that soothing word
or talks you through a process. When he
takes his arms and wraps them
like a coil around your back they lock
at the spine
and suddenly
you feel his warmth
emitting
from his chest
to yours like
a ton pound wave of warm ocean water
at once
sweeping you off the ground-
enfolding
into quiet content.
That
is how I feel
whenever my brother hugs me.
I clearly remember one instance in particular when this happened.
We stood side by side,
his face grim but well-composed, a sort of
respect was brimming from his posture – hands folded,
body upright –
as we watched the coffin which hid my grandmother's body
disappear
inside the long black car and drive away.
And as I cried he held me,
with every inch of his muscles easing my tension, his comfort overflowing me.
Because of this time and many others,
I know Matt is one of the only people I can fully trust –
one of the first I know I can turn to for help.
His first priority is family.
Always has been, always will be.
And if anyone had an inkling of a doubt in his loyalty,
one time specifically, would validate his devotion:
When
my parents said they were getting divorced
I
didn't know what to do or
what to say or
even how to act. But
sure enough-
from miles away
consumed by city New York lights
flashing like warning signs and
constant acting classes
controlling all his time-
he was there.
Almost
in the utmost urgency
immediately
he booked a flight home
and before I even knew it
he was walking through the kitchen side door.
He was coming home
with no one asking him to,
he was coming home on his own,
to ease the tension newly risen
and
to help form that bridge which
connects my vision of married parents
to the reality of the thing.
He heard an unuttered plea,
and followed it,
deserting his present life
to attend to his little siblings
and help dad move his stuff out
and to coax mom's anxiety.
He was the needle which
pulled each of us like thread
into
the right direction we needed to go
so we could cope
with our new life.
I still admire my brother for this, for
acting so heroically on such a whim.
How many people do you know that would actually go to that extent,
to take care of his family? At least me,
not many.
Because of this and so much more,
I have learned what a hero really is.
What dedication really is.
What courage is. And what passion is.
Matt embodies all of this:
He is
the one I follow for guidance going
ever on upwards for
he never stops pursuing. Cause
he knows exactly what he wants
and
exactly how to get that in that
he trusts his intuition.
More so than anyone I know.
He is
the one person deserving-
rightly for he earned it-
every ounce of perfect felicity,
imperfect only
for he has no flaw.
He is my brother, and I'm happy to say that.