The Mystery of Not Knowing

Who knew?

The feast of Stephen
was a day
and not a place
where king and page trod
seeking yonder peasant.

That Christmas,
snuggled on the floor
beneath the carefully icicled tree,
listening to carolers
at the front door,
(wrapped in my mother's white chenille bedspread
-- the one we always used when we were sick --
my thumb worrying the special corner hole)
I closed my five year old eyes,
scanned my own snowy fields
of memory,
seeking my brother
of the same name
who had entered a hospital
and not returned.

I imagined a field being named for him,
my footsteps
walking in the dinted snow
where his had been,
seeking someone
even sadder
and more alone
than I.