Frills of winter

He comes to me

says we must bury mother

I say to him brother

we buried her eight years ago

incessantly he knocks on my door

at midnight

gathers the frills of winter about him

mumbles frosty things I don't understand

words tripping on his tongue

in the chaos of it all

he insists we must bury mother

He wasn't there when she died

he an economic prisoner in some foreign land

fending for us the economic orphans of this land

bought a white dome casket for mother's send off

she would have been proud of her final resting home,

I bet

he says he didn't cry, he couldn't

and those tears must now harangue him

in places where his sleep should be

Up and down the corridor he paces

in search of closure in the doors facing west

I can only hold him for a while, hug him like a child

a fifty-year old man in my arms

in this temporary lull he mumbles,

"We must bury mother."