The Sound, and the Shape it Makes in Air

My whole childhood I listenedfor it, not knowing exactly what Iwas listening for, or the shape it makesin air or in the vacant stare of my brotherwho died before I was born but seemed stilla presence in our house. I thought I wouldknow it when it arrived, and was afraid.“Those precious years,” a neighbor said,patting me on the head, yet nothing was preciousthen, nor certain, nor jinxed—just there, one calendar page at a time,the calendar of impossible vistas in a closetby the back door.I saw my brother there more than once,a brief presence before I closed the door.It was unsettling, especially the first time I saw himthere, but after that he was just a feeling,unfortunate for a child my age.I remember his eyes, which were large,which seemed a shape in air, but not the oneI was looking for. When I told my mother aboutmy brother in the closet, she said I know.