The Sound, and the Shape it Makes in Air

My whole childhood I listened
for it, not knowing exactly what I
was listening for, or the shape it makes
in air or in the vacant stare of my brother
who died before I was born but seemed still
a presence in our house. I thought I would
know it when it arrived, and was afraid.
“Those precious years,” a neighbor said,
patting me on the head, yet nothing was precious
then, nor certain, nor jinxed—
just there, one calendar page at a time,
the calendar of impossible vistas in a closet
by 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 him
there, 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 one
I was looking for. When I told my mother about
my brother in the closet, she said I know.