The Last to Arrive

They were talking about the house on Grove Street,

the one with the porch that smelled like rot.

My brother was laughing, describing the heat

of the summer the neighbor’s garage caught.

I sat there with my fork halfway to my face,

trying to build a room I’ve never seen.

I’m a ghost in their history, taking up space

in a version of us that’s always been lean

on details for me. I was still in a chair

with a plastic tray while they lived the real part.

I wore the hand-me-down sweater, the tear

in the elbow already a work of art

by the time it reached me. I’m the footnote,

the 'oh, and then she was born' at the end.

I’m wearing their shadows like a heavy coat

waiting for a memory I don't have to pretend.