Matthew

It was just so damned ontological, my brother’s death.

It was a fucking tree falling in the woods.

His body arrived at night. By morning

It was gone, taken away by some dark procession at the cusp

Of dawn.

I awoke to the news. My father’s soft, apologetic voice

Brought me awake. He said,

“I’m sorry to wake you, William, but Matthew died last night.”

On the stairs I encountered my brother, the living one.

“It’s awful, Will,” he said.

Downstairs I stumbled upon a tableau:

The family doctor comforting the blasted mother,

The sobbing daughter at the side.

The father. Quiet. Walked out alone.

(To think? To cry? To barter with God?)

These scenes convinced me of the truth of my father’s statement.

I reserved my own judgment and quietly withdrew to my room.