Your tiny infant bones are
Buried in the middle of Austin.
Somewhere. I don't know where.
Our father took me there once
To show me your gravestone.
It only said "Son."
It took them over twenty-two years
To mark your final sleeping place.
They used my college money
To buy the stone I begged for you.
Mother laughed when she told me
Your tombstone was my graduation gift.
And,
I hated you for dying
And leaving me alone with them.
You were the first;
Born three years, five months,
And six days before me.
Breech birth complications
Strangled you to death with
The cord that kept you
Alive for nine months.
Mother said you were stillborn
But you held on for three long days.
They never named you.
They never baptized you.
They never honored your tiny life.
And,
I hated you for dying and
Leaving me alone with them.
Mother said they were going
To name you Henry William III
After our father.
You were to be called Bill,
But they didn't want to waste the name
On a dead baby.
When they might have another son
To be third in line.
Instead, I came along and was
Named after our grandmother.
They despised me and resented
That I needed them to care for me.
And,
I hated you for dying,
And leaving me alone with them.
I fantasized that we would be
Best friends and buddies.
Dreaming you would be my protector,
My cherished, obnoxious, older brother.
My knight in shining honor.
I imagined we would help each other
Through the shared nightmare of them.
We would nurse each other's bruises
And shame from the neglect
Of not being wanted or loved.
Instead, you abandoned me
Before you even knew me.
And,
I hated you for dying
And leaving me alone with them.
You escaped.
And I survived.
I love you.
JulieOHara
