My younger brother was afraid of thunder,

lightning. My father bought a recording of storms,

put it on the stereo, and rocked on the love seat

with my brother over and over,

until the sound meant comfort, warmth.

Much later, my brother became obsessed with meteorology

and dreamed of becoming a weatherman.

When I finally connected the early fear

with the later passion,

we were looking down at my father in his coffin.

Not my father but his body. More like an echo

of his flesh. No weather on his face.

I’d seen him often in a suit but never wearing a vest.

Pajamas would have made more sense.

The soft rain of the talking all around us

was a cocoon I wanted to live inside.

I heard the metronome of my heart

and thought of Quakers waiting for silence

to open its mouth. Of the hope

just below the surface of the phrase, keeping time.

‍