159/365: Slow Swing
My older brother was calmed by repetition.
He kicked his bed with heavy thumps,
swayed to the rhythm of his own
way way way,
and beat out time during tantrums,
his head slamming against walls
until we could hear his teeth.
When my parents would leave,
and the house was quiet,
I would start the metronome
with a slow swing
on the back of the electric organ,
so slow that we anticipated failure
and wondered if it could push over the next arc,
which it would
with a miraculous consistency,
behind its own momentum
over the breach.