You would go down into

the basement to cry
when everything got too much
for you to carry by yourself.
You didn't want us to hear you,
but I always did.
And it was like a slow corkscrew
going into my chest every time.
Life had dumped on you
with such brutal callousness,
taken so much away from you,
smashed your hopes so often
(and sometimes brought out the worst in you,
even though you didn't want it to)
that I, the youngest one, the weakest one,
the sickly one, slipped on the
harness and became the nicest one,
the one that was always on your side,
the one who would try to never let you down.
(I was trying to use the
thin reed of me
to prop up the struggling, falling
tree of you. )
I know now that it was easier for you to
shout in rage
than to fall back down
into that dark crevice, the one you had
already worn your hands raw
crawling out of so much.
But I also know why
you just had to stand downstairs
by the washing machine sometimes
when there was no one to be angry with,
and your only recourse
was to let the river
of your overwrought
sorrow
course again down
its well worn channel.