My Brother, Cyril

by Arthur C. Ford, poet


In the early part of an evening of our lives, my brother and I felt like we were trapped in a net made of glue; New Orleans humidity was the same as the temperature-ninety. After we drank some cheap wine, I noticed he had drifted off to sleep with ashes hanging from fifty per cent of his cigarette. The breeze coming from the window was cool; he sneezed; I went to cover him with a blanket, and of course put the cigarette out, but the ashes fell to the floor, and dissipated to
the command of the wind. I threw the blanket over him, put what was left of his ashed-cigarette in the ashtray, then went to sleep.

I was sixteen, he was two years less, but more curious; he was the one that found a way to get into our house “without a key”, camouflage Mrs. Katy’s lemon pies until they “disappeared”, and find someone old enough to purchase wine for us.

But on the other hand, I soon proved to be a “partner in his mischiefs”-I mastered all his antics. He was good in biology, being the first to explain to me the process of photosynthesis, I was a wiz in mathematics, mentally computing what our change should be “before” the grocer added it up on the cash register. We supplemented each other perfectly.

My brother and I did everything together; we went to school, church, parties, fishing, swimming, played ball, and to secure our togetherness even more, we dated girls who were sisters.

Years later, in the late part of an evening of my life, I sat staring (after drinking a bottle of Don Pernignon Champagne) across the room. I noticed that the breeze had become wild and colder, but this time it did not interfere with my brother or his ashes, for they both were resting well in the hermetically sealed urn on my altar.

By: Arthur C. Ford,Sr., poet/editor
wewuvpoetry at

Comments for My Brother, Cyril

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Touching pieces
by: Anonymous

My Brother Cyril is a prose poem, one of the lovely pieces of writing I've read in this website. It reminds me of a Japanese haiku which says:

"Where can he be now, that brave hunter of dragonflies?"

I read My Brother Cyril just after reading the piece of Brother Boniface on growing old gracefully. These pieces create a peaceful and wholesome understanding of how life moves on with all its surprises and mysteries.

I would like to read more interesting articles/poetry in this important website for retirees...

life is how you make it.
by: gbetanu vincent joe

Really, i enjoy the issues that have happened, how you were kids the way you live together and so on and so for. so i think in this world, no matter how you are, you one day grow old.

by: Arthur c. Ford,Sr.,poetAnonymous

Thanks Wendy.

Wendy: Thank you, Arthur... for sharing!

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