Dad leans forward in his chair
and listens with his eyes closed
to Israel Kamakawiwo‛ole today.

In Hawaii, 
dressed in Army fatigues,
Dad waited all day at the airport 
for his wife and infant son
to get off of a plane 
they had never boarded.

I do not know my half-brother.
I only know this much
and that his mother had red hair.
I won’t interrupt the music with questions.

Dad taps his knee to Israel’s voice,
his forearm muscles pulsing
under a faded eagle tattoo.