My half-brother is now my brother

 We had never had times like this, 

I'm panting to keep up with him on this 

strenuous bike ride through the Park, stopping en route to listen to 

West African music, the party goers likely preparing for the upcoming France-Senegal match

There was a lake off to the side, we passed by the restaurant and circled back

To find it together, a generous nod to our time in Senegal, decades apart.

This man is no longer my little brother, the 13 year old that lost his father

Too young, sobbing in the pews of the Unitarian Church in Chicago.

Only yesterday, I opened his front door to gasp at the sublime interior, filled with antiques

The product of an artist's eye, the work of this half-brother, who is now a full

Fledged brother, no longer the "kid" who worried about losing his siblings when

The patriarch passed on so young.

Let us not pass up any more opportunities to be together, to ride and to walk together

In spite of challenges that inspire deep respect and admiration.

We had never had times like this, but we will have them again.

The visit

 

My eyes drifted towards the wooden planks, 

Out the window at the pool cover, sagging from 

The leaden weight of snow, a brutal winter.

Her voice flowed over me like the sea, a myriad

Of pebbles of memories rushing towards me,

The accumulation following decades of silence. 

A frozen friendship waiting to be thawed, 

A seemingly urgent rush of words without a comma, 

Nor the briefest semi-colon, my gaze shifts to

The new appliances, the ones that will help sell

This majestic home that may still echo with 

Children’s cries, small running feet along the 

Floorboards above, the creaking of mattress springs.

Finally I turn my face to her, the jowls of age

Softened in the telling, our eyes meet as we rise, 

The chairs scraping, the wheels of my overstuffed 

Suitcase rolling towards the door.

Walking the Freedom Trail

Just follow the red painted line, or the one of red brick,

And it will tell you a tale of our country, from the Old North Church,

Where lanterns were hung, of bullets and fallen men, 

Let this path take you to Faneuil Hall where they met and schemed,

Wear a good pair of shoes for crossing bridges, stepping carefully 

Over uneven cobblestone or lumpy grassy fields dotted with 

The gravestones of those who trodded the paths here over

Two hundred years ago.

And when it all blurs into one long tangled history,

Find another vibrant coffee shop or quiet garden to rest,

Hoping that in two hundred years this trail will still guide

Us towards knowledge, that the threads and tears of today

Will not have shredded all that we have endured 

To date.  

 

MIT and the Isabella Gardner Museum

They say the people who work there don't like it, the obtuse and the acute angles,

The irregular hallways and jutting windows, this is the replacement for the

Boxy WWII army-style architecture where I studied so many years ago, 

Grey walls replaced by shiny metal surfaces and glossy displays of the latest in 

Tech and science propelling us into the new world order

Where I hope to catch a glimpse of a twirling skirt and the sound of 

Spanish guitars, feel the warmth of human connection in music,

Breathe in the humid air and sweet smell of mock orange,

Delight in the ridiculously gaudy blossoms of the foxglove

Luring us towards death, we refuse, ricocheting between the

Accelerating pace of artificial intelligence, and the places where

We only wish to rest amidst the blooms and paintings of the 

Romantic era. 

I could see rainbows through the mist at Harvard University

 I remember the rainbows in my eyes looking across the mist,

My son racing from rock to rock, blue sweatpants darkened by moisture,

The glee of a three year old, soon followed by a little sister who was not yet

Toddling, only crowing from the stroller in the tandem of happinesss.

I remember the clouds and the rain, the long winters, the money struggles of 

Small children, graduate student and postdoc salaries, if they call it that, 

Yet we prevailed, and they grew up.  

I remember the banners of Veritas, the coming back to this place, 

The double vision of the past, with me in a crimson graduation gown, now

Looking across a cloud, through the mist in my eyes, to see her in a crimson 

Gown from atop the stairs of Widener, where we all learned to grow up

Somehow and move into the world, the mist still in our eyes as we look

Forward towards uncertainty, finding an occasional solid rock beneath

Our feet, and carrying the solemn joyful memories inside our hearts. 

Popping a balloon in an MIT strobe lab

 I didn't seem to be able to count to three

Until the second go-around, then smiling widely into the microsecond 

Flash, the balloon was burst and recorded for all history.

it was, to be here, so many years ago

In this place, that brilliant minds and timid personalities

were birthed into the dazzling world of science,

This is the place where there was no time to blink,

The balloon of knowledge was bursting in front of us

We had only to grab it, to chew at its corners and

Inhale voraciously.

I'm counting to three now, and ten and 

Twenty, to forty-five years gone by, still staggered

By flashes of brilliance resonating within these

Hallowed halls. 

The best coffee, the best friends

 No, I had never used a frother, and been offered the use of the car, and

Been accompanied on a custom bike to experience the green, dense forests 

on the way to White Pond, 

No, I don't recall feeling so cared for and so pampered,

My taste buds rejoiced when savoring the simple meal we shared.  

Yes to Paul and Rebecca, yes to Amaya, we will see each other again!

You are all so beloved, my heart is so full of joy. 

Warm in your little Concord home, so cozy, with the fancy

"Authentic polyester" throws on the couch and chair, the balcony

Looking out onto towering fir trees, 

The beautiful flowers on the table greet me this morning, even

More special that they were for Paul for his 15 years teaching.

And I smile when I spot the intricate spiderweb woven  under the 

Small stool, no doubt the small resident feels the same.