Etched in my memory is a chair in the Rexall Drug, Easter eve--me sitting on the edge of it, waiting
And the despairing look on my father's face while he too waited, for some pill or potion to heal my big brother
Sitting across from me, asleep, was a woman--I believe the oldest person in the world
Together we were half this lonely planet, my father and the apothecary the rest of its survivors
Every other soul was gone, perhaps snatched early, by some unexpected rapture
Resurrection was nigh, but I was expecting only an egg hunt, and perchance a chocolate bunny
Across the street, a church sat in silence, its steeple cross barely visible through the Rexall's glass door
Thunder echoed through the night, and for a flickering moment, it was daylight outside
The druggist handed my father a small white paper bag, for which he gave thanks
He said, "Let's go, David." Not "Bud" or "Podner," and he didn't wait for me to get up
Even though it had begun to rain, he moved slowly through the lot to our parked car
Every time I think of that night, I wonder who was born the next day, to take my brother's place
Death I discovered, is not on a schedule--the doctors said he had a year, maybe more
Gods don't explain themselves to men or monkeys, at least not to the mortals I know
Easter was a good day to die I guess, but if my brother thought so, he didn't say