Howard Talbot Walden Hyde
Today would have been
My Brother’s 56th birthday —
he died at 45
innocent on a jail house floor —
My Beautiful Brother
conceived in Gabon
when Our Mother was ill
He was born during The Cuban Missile Crisis
and took that to Heart —
It coloured His outlook
of fear
though He was brave at six
when I threw His shiny red fire truck
down the cellar stairs —
He was brave at eleven
when I pushed Him off
the bow of Our Mother’s Molly
and He was brave at seventeen
when I told Him “No”
after he asked, “Don’t you love Me?”
He played the clarinet & saxophone
and made up stories about two clowns
named Jane Rane and Rank Raunk
while I pretended in a baby voice
He was “Uncle Howie”
and We played “Mail”
under the bathroom door
He followed Me like a shadow
jealous when I first married —
Our Mother had Howard give Me away
He built Me up with His Devotion
all the times I was ill after Our Mother died
and I slammed Him down
into the ground of Pine Grove Cemetary
in Shelburne, Nova Scotia
wailing on Our Father’s Shoulder
Note: The ghost of My Dear Brother haunts a part of My House — My Second Husband’s former Library where I installed a memorial to Howard with a painting of poppies the heavy frame of which warped the day I hung it there.
Joanna Gilman Hyde 