Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Lawrence Raab’s "Stories in Which the Past Is Made" is a meditation on sibling relationships, memory, and the ways in which the past is continually reshaped through recollection and conversation. The poem explores the tensions and affections that exist between brothers, the inevitable drift that comes with time, and the power of storytelling to reconstruct and reconcile what was lost or misunderstood. Through restrained language and a reflective tone, Raab examines the evolving nature of love—how it moves from childhood rivalries to the mature work of "restoration, of repair."

The poem opens with a striking confession: "There would have been a time when I hated you so purely / I’d have thought nothing could overcome it." The intensity of childhood emotions—especially among siblings—is often absolute, and the phrase "so purely" suggests a hatred that was untainted by complexity or doubt. Yet the past tense immediately signals change, as does the admission that this hatred has been, in some way, overcome.

The next lines introduce an unexpected contrast: "And why was that?—since you shielded me / in the predictable violence of schoolyards, / and told me, once or twice, what I needed to know / before I discovered I’d have to know it." The older brother, despite the tensions, was also a protector and guide. The "predictable violence of schoolyards" evokes a familiar world of childhood hierarchy, where older siblings often act as both adversary and defender. The phrase "once or twice" suggests that these moments of guidance were rare, yet significant enough to be remembered.

The speaker reflects on his younger self: "I wasn’t so unwilling / to follow you, whose clothes I grew into, / who had things first and when they were new." This passage captures the experience of the younger sibling—always inheriting, always following, always slightly behind. The older brother "fought for all the permissions / I’d inherit—the cars and girls, and how late was too late, / or just late enough." This line speaks to the way younger siblings often benefit from the rule-breaking of their elders. The older sibling tests boundaries, clearing the path for the younger one to follow. Yet, despite this implicit connection, something "went wrong between us."

The poem pauses to question the cause of their distance: "Was there one truly bad occasion?— / or simply the years of ordinary silence, / being apart and coming back for the celebrations and the deaths." The absence of a singular rupture suggests that their estrangement was not caused by a dramatic event but rather by the slow accumulation of time, the natural drifting apart that often happens between siblings as they grow into separate lives. The phrase "celebrations and the deaths" compresses the defining moments of family reunions into two poles—joy and mourning. It is in these gatherings, where shared history resurfaces, that the brothers are repeatedly brought back together.

A shift occurs as the speaker acknowledges their later reconciliation: "And then we felt it together: / that need to be friends, although friendship wasn’t what we could have, / only love, the love of restoration, of repair." There is an honesty in recognizing that their relationship can never be just friendship—it is something deeper and more complicated, shaped by shared history, rivalry, and familial obligation. The phrase "the love of restoration, of repair" suggests that love, in this case, is an act of rebuilding, of mending what was frayed by time and distance.

The act of storytelling becomes the vehicle for this restoration: "So much of the past remained, / and late at night with the house asleep / we found those stories neither could have remembered alone." Here, the brothers’ bond is rekindled through the act of collective memory. There is something intimate and sacred about "late at night with the house asleep," a moment set apart from the obligations of daily life. Their shared past becomes something fluid—"stories in which the past is made, / and corrected, and made again." This cyclical process of remembering and reinterpreting emphasizes that memory is not static; it is something that evolves through conversation, through the act of telling and retelling.

The final lines of the poem introduce an unexpected revelation: "And so, my brother—the one they loved the best, being the first, / the one who died before I was born, the one nobody knew— / at last we have spoken." The entire poem is recontextualized by this closing confession. The brother to whom the speaker has been addressing his reflections is not just the sibling with whom he had an evolving relationship, but also an absent figure, a shadow of loss within the family. The phrase "the one they loved the best" suggests both admiration and perhaps a lingering sense of displacement—the way an idealized memory can sometimes eclipse the living. The words "at last we have spoken" imply that the act of remembering, of reconstructing the past, has allowed the speaker to connect with the brother he never knew.

"Stories in Which the Past Is Made" is a meditation on the power of memory to bridge distances—both between the living and the dead, and between the past and the present. Raab acknowledges that sibling relationships are fraught with competition, resentment, and unspoken tensions, but he also affirms their potential for reconciliation. Through the act of storytelling, the past is reshaped, misunderstandings are softened, and love—though imperfect—persists. The poem ultimately suggests that memory, rather than being a fixed record, is an ongoing dialogue, a means of making sense of both what was and what was lost.

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