My Brother Rico

by amahra

I still see you there, in your youth,
your white smile illuminating the air.
Small in stature, yet the toughest man I've ever known.

When the fire started, it went fast. I could only grab my son and a coat.
The blaze seemed as a thousand torches held by invisible hands
as it chased us, room to room, down the stairs and into the night.
You saw the red ball when it burst through an open window,
and came to gather us up from the wet stone steps.

The littlest son, my infant,
could barely breathe. In a panic, I ran for the door.
Instinctively, you appeared,
and again, we met at the bottom of the stone steps.
After hearing my cry, you took him, put him in the bend of your arm,
like a football, and ran nine blocks to the emergency room.
There--I found him entertained by an angel,
as he smiled broadly in his sleep.

Your calm, when I told you of the abuse, was quite unexpected;
your shoulders, worth more than a mere cry-on.
You gathered some things into a bag and entered my home;
Slept on my sofa; waited for the brute to knock and swear.
When he came, I felt at peace: that your shadow
fell between me and a raging bull.
Never knew what you had said or done and never asked.
But since your discreet justice, the abuse floated away, like a feather in the wind.

Oh--what reliable wings you have to ride on, my brother.
What arms you have that did bear me up again and again.
Rico is a tough street name: a fearsome name of your youth.
Yet, when Mother first spoke your birth name, demons growled and backed away.

Did they sense a resemblance in your character to someone they knew?
Someone who had defeated them--kicked them out of Paradise?
Someone who descends just to foil their evil plans?

"What is this name that so disturbs them?" you asked.
"I shall answer you:
Michael, the Warrior of the heavens.
Michael, my beloved brother."

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This poem is long over due for my youngest brother who seemed always to be there for me during the most tragic times of my life. Writing it took me back as I recounted those desperate moments and by the time I finished the poem, I couldn't even see for the tears. He was a tough kid growing up and felt his birth name (Michael) was too sissy. I want him to know that a great warrior shares that name with him. I will frame a copy of this poem and give it to him.

Art work: My Brother by CharlieNitro

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You were always there

My Brother Rico

by amahra

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