Time To Remember V Poem by Morgan Michaels

In between bouts of business Donnie saw La Grande Jatte, Nighthawks and a slew more. Then, he saw Symphony Hall, the Blackmore and quite a few surviving Sullivan buildings, all without his brother, who had to go back out to the lawyer's because he left his knap-sack there. Finally he paid and with that, sighed, feeling he'd done what he could. Business done, they left Chicago and caught the train home. The ride back was even worse- a reprise of the ride out, but with track trouble. Donnie was relieved when the uncomplicated Philadelphia skyline bobbed into view. With little sentiment, he bid Ronnie goodbye at Thirtieth Street and sat down on a bench to await the New York train.

'Home', he thought. So much for quality time.

A rosy light streamed through the windows above the architrave.

*

Donnie listened while his brother made small talk on the phone. He'd narrowly missed visiting six weeks ago, he said, when business brought him to the city. But in the end he had to get back quickly.

'Oh, well', breathed Donnie, 'another time'.

Ronnie's eternal fiancee's adapted daughter was in the psych ward, again, he said. The one from Guatamala. She'd gone off her meds, which she should never do.

'Oh, no'.

Donnie tapped a finger and listened. Surely his brother hadn't called to tell him about narrowly missed visits or the difficult daughter's latest woes.

'That's awful'.

A litany followed: his job, his finances, his cholesterol, his teeth (he needed a root canal) and, finally, his blood pressure. Donnie had warned him about his blood pressure in Chicago. He was still without a doc- insurance limited his selection and work limited his availability.

Donnie listened, asking a question, now and then.

'By the way', said his brother, abruptly, 'can you do me a favor?
Please'.

Donnie was silent.He thought of his biblical obligation. He thought of the indignity of illness and how heavily it weighs.He thought of its hardship and expense and the hazards of delay. Finally, he thought of their dead mother. His age-old longing for blamelessness asserted itself.

'Sure', he replied, guardedly, after a moment, 'what'?

'Can you call my pharmacy and order me some Lisinopril? I'll give you the number'.

So that was it.

'Oh, ah, ah, ok. No problem'.

'Thanks. Well, let me get off this phone. I've got a million things to do.

They hung...