If ever the dead were to be recalled/ it would be in [a] voice flung confident/ into the raving light.

“The Silence,” from Cardinals in the Ice Age, by John Engels

At the hospital, a member of the staff came swiftly into the room to check Dad’s unconsciousness. She touched him, looked into his eyes, and called out in lifted voice,  “Robert! Robert!”

My heart clenched. That was the name of his dead brother. 

I didn’t fear Robert would be recalled to life, still aged twenty after four decades of death. But I could imagine my uncle’s spirit, matured and paternal, surfacing through the years and distance from the mountains of Korea. He would appear in the far corner of the hospital room, first with a blank expression, wondering who had called his name with such command. Then in the next moment he would go to the foot of Dad’s bed. With great and wise tenderness he would gaze at his brother’s face, catching up with the changes. Robert would size up the situation and move toward the sleeping form. With surprising strength, he would lift Dad decisively, making him ten years old again before my eyes.

Then, without one look toward me, Robert would bear my father away.