They might not have told me your cause of death
even before the autopsy regardless of if they already knew
because the words would’ve sunk with double weight.
My mother’s whispers cracking like hit drywall, I know 
she sees me in you. She sees a dead child. 

You can visit the basement spare room anytime, knocking
with the wisteria, find the paintings and TV you left safe.
I never remember how we’re related, not that we ever held
a conversation. I ask which sister your mother is, who to pin
the wings of my condolence to. I know she is dying now.

I’m seeing my future, 30s if I make it, in the twisted mirror 
of a Google search, clawing for a face to put a name to,
pan out a mugshot that looks uncanny alike to my father.
I think it’s a blood thing, brainfold, that’s killing us, not
that I wouldn’t blame whatever you took on a tangible level. 

I hope nobody knows why I’m crying for you. I’m horrifically
selfish. Stunned silent in my mother’s rainfall, then grasping
my father’s stiff shoulders because he is silent too, at first. 
We never hug. But you’re dead now. And the universe’s
apportionment is either poor or poignantly timed, in choosing.