During one of the six billion days that make up a
year when you are five and your brother is three
a photograph framed an instant.

He looks more like a sister,
hair long, softly curling, white as corn silk,
His eyes are round, nose small, skin pale,
smile open to allow some happy to escape.

I am clasping him about the neck,
pulling him close. It probably hurts, but
he is too loving, too kind,
too young to protest (the rebellion is yet to come).
Later, we will probably have a parade around the house,
pots and pans upon our heads,
Dancing to creepy music sung by a purple dinosaur.
We’ve seen the episode at least a dozen times,
We know all the words; my brother beats his pot with a wooden spoon,
which he then plunges into his pink mouth.

During that time, someone tall came along
and sat us down behind the couch
To freeze forever a moment when we were so happy,
with pots and pans, with “Skip to my Lou,”
With sitting side-by-side, to giggle.