First published in River Poets Journal: Volume 10, Issue 1

My brother was an old beatnik (I guess I’m an old hippie — only a few years made all the difference). I was my brother’s caretaker for his final seven years, the slow decline of dementia. He was not religious. In fact he was anti-religious. But still I would argue with my brother about spirit. I said we all have a spirit that lives on after we die. He wasn’t buying it and kept challenging me: “What is spirit? What do you mean?”  I told him your spirit is like a shadow except instead of darkness it is made of light. As the sunset neared on his life, I could sense his spirit growing larger. He denied it to the end and I love him for that. After my brother’s passing, years went by before I could write about it. When I was ready, this poem sprang up. You could chisel it on my tombstone (and please do).

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