Current Issue 2026

My brother was a toolbox,

eight years my senior, physically,
but many years younger, cognitively,
containing tools that walk with me every day,
long after he has gone.

Laci would place his plastic red truck in my lap
to offer comfort and empathy. He would
break his melting chocolate bar and extend me
a messy half licking his fingers.

He would wait for instructions
with the patience of a saint, then
           brush his teeth,
                      assemble a puzzle,
                                 set the table

laboriously.
Once done, Laci would raise his eyes
with triumph, pride.

Resilience was another tool in his box.
Watching Laci struggle with
           buttoning his shirt,
                      holding and using a fork properly;
                                 matching socks in the laundry hamper
was humbling.
He would overcome challenges, or not,
but not give up.

Perspective is the one I most cherish.
Success being relative:
           Uttering a word,
                      getting an idea across,
                                 smiling when your sister understands.

At the bottom of the box
was gratitude, and

I learned to dig it up every day,
to appreciate the small things in life—
           being on time for a class or a meeting,
                      a stranger helping to pick up papers scattered in the wind,
                                 and the beauty of the wet track a snail left behind.