Book of the Week – Oh broer / Oh brother by John Verhart & Max Verhart

Oh broer is a book that moves between word and image, between two brothers, and between presence and impending absence. Written by John Verhart and accompanied by Max Verhart’s illustrations, it traces the final months of a life with a restraint that makes its emotional weight all the more palpable.

The book unfolds as dated entries, each holding a moment that feels both ordinary and irreversible. Early on, we encounter:

nine percent chance
that he’ll still be here in five years—
not a cloud in the sky 

The clarity of the sky stands in quiet defiance of the prognosis. The haiku does not dramatise the moment, instead lets the contrast sit, almost unbearably still. What is spoken clinically is received personally.

Elsewhere, a fleeting pastoral image carries a different kind of steadiness:

summer dike
the sheep recently shorn
just like the grass 

The comparison is gentle, almost casual. Yet, in the context of illness, the act of being “shorn” begins to echo more deeply of reduction, of stripping down to what remains.

The body’s gradual withdrawal is recorded without embellishment. A later entry notes the difficulty of breathing, of movement, of staying awake. And then, almost unexpectedly, this:

hazelnut cake—
my only brother’s
last birthday 

There is no attempt to heighten the moment. The cake stands where words might fail. Celebration and finality occupy the same small space.

Memory, too, begins to shift. In one entry, the brother appears again in a dream, simply alive, as always. The boundary between absence and presence blurs, not philosophically, but experientially. And then, toward the end:

new bike
falling immediately
years gone 

The image is almost childlike. A new beginning collapses into loss in a single motion. Time is not linear here; it slips, folds, returns.

Running alongside the text are Max Verhart’s illustrations, simple, almost playful images of a wheeled figure moving through landscapes, seasons, and small towns. At first glance, they seem detached from the gravity of the text. But slowly, they begin to feel like another register of the same experience, movement continuing, even when the body cannot.

What stays with you is not any single moment, but the way the book infuses the grief into the everyday. Conversations, weather, and small observations all remain intact. Nothing is heightened, and because of that, everything is felt more deeply.

As you read, you may find yourself returning to your own experience of loss. Which part of the book triggered it: the diagnosis, the waiting, the ordinary conversation, or the memory that returns unannounced?

And perhaps more quietly: what do we hold onto when we know we cannot hold on?

You can read the full book in the THF Digital Library. As you move through it, notice how the images and words speak to each other—and where they leave space for you.

Do you have a full-length or chapbook-length book published in 2021 or earlier that you would like featured as a Book of the Week? Contact us for details. Haiku featured in the Book of the Week Archive are selected by the THF Digital Librarian, Vidya Premkumar and are used with permission.