Meeting Michael

My cousin Michael sits in the faltering sunshine
under the imposing architecture of Duke University,
his eyelids pinched, unsuccessfully, to
remember the words spoken earlier that day by my uncle.
It was time to go home.
In high school he was valedictorian, a star football player,
yet here on unforgiving steps surrounded by needles and warm beer bottles
he was reduced to a child.
A car rumbled around the corner and Uncle John,
looking more like Grandpa every day, emerged with military efficiency
followed by Aunt Rosie, eyes mesmerized by the scars in the sidewalk
carved by the roots of exuberant oak trees in freshly laid cement,
scars duplicated in her child’s withered veins.
The addiction medication made him nervous, skeptical, too alert.
I didn’t know him when his eyes could solve equations in seconds
before the family began speaking about him in whispers.
I didn’t meet him until five years ago at a family wedding,
or at least, that is my first recollection of him.
The afternoon sun fell through the skylights,
seduced by the chocolate guitars on linen tables nestled in shrink-wrap,
wedding favors from my music loving cousins.
Ringing glasses calling for kisses
attempted to blot out his loneliness, but it was too much.
He collapsed into himself like an origami swan,
head tucked beneath the wings of a starched shirt.
Slowly he rocked back and forth as if he were floating on water,
his wooden chair pressing waves into the floor.