Settle into the dream world.
See the living room of your childhood home.
I know, your parents just sold that house
and split the money,
but pretend for a moment—
yes, by the out-of-tune light brown piano
you used to cry over.
Look in your arms,
your baby brother,
dark curly hair, sunshine-warm face,
round nose, white diaper,
tiny ankle that—snags,
a strip of bright red blood, slightly
dripping. You hand the bundle
to your dad. No, I know you aren’t speaking
to him right now. But it makes sense, I promise.
Your dad takes baby brother
into the bathroom.
Something’s wrong.
You rush into the bathroom.
You’re screaming.
“Where is he?” “Where is he?”
Your dad is mourning, but how
could he be mourning? It’s only been
a couple of seconds. “Bring him back!”
Your baby brother’s in front of you now
on that white marble sink counter.
You put two fingers on his chest,
start compressions,
like you learned in babysitter training.
Ignore the fact that his organs are already gone,
that he’s turning into a practice dummy,
that he’s already gone.
Keep pressing.
Keep pressing until your mom comes in.
She places her hands on your shoulders,
guides you away.
Don’t think about his twin sister
in the other room.
Look into your teenage sister’s eyes.
She’s sitting at that awkward-length kitchen table,
in a flowing black and white skirt,
scrolling on her phone, waiting to leave.
Realize no one’s told her yet.
Don’t go to say his name.
You don’t know his name.
Why can you not remember his name?
Wake up.
Remember he’s not dead.
Remember
you have no baby brother.
He has no twin sister.
And you have an appointment
in twenty minutes.
Settle into the real world.
Rebekah Cook
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