Page 8 of The Secret to Belonging

your mother, on the other hand

needs to be needed, needs to be in control

thinks problems exist for her to solve

their door is closed and they’re trying to whisper

but their voices rise and fall

you can feel the tension through the wallpaper

you wonder what your brother did this time

you close your bedroom door

flip through your shelf of Broadway musicals

most were gifts from your granny

when your granddad died

she gave you his whole collection

said he wanted you to have them

you slide Carousel out of its album cover

(the 1965 Lincoln Center cast recording

not the Shirley Jones soundtrack)

set the record on the turntable

you know it’s a terribly sexist show

but you can’t help loving the song

You’ll Never Walk Alone

you lie on the floor

prop your head on your backpack

you imagine yourself walking through a storm

chin high, stoic, orchestra swelling with hope

the pink Sally Hansen nail polish

on your right thumb is chipping

you pick at and peel it

for most of your life your brother has been a hurricane

that’s tossed and blown your family to smithereens

but even though you’re all together