My brother Mark and I
I wanted to marry my little brother "Markie."
Clad in my favorite Strawberry Shortcake shirt
and a dress made from a blanket.
A fake flower plucked from a vase.
A veil edged in lace.
Markie in my dad's too-big striped tie,
so proudly holding my arm.
An irresistible grin a mile wide,
His hair lightened by the summer spent outside.
My brother Kevin and I, circa 1982
He arrived when I was five, on the edge of six.
I loved holding him and giving him bottles.
I brought him to school for Show & Tell.
So proud was I that I also shared
"Where Did I Come From?"
the book my parents gave me, with all
of my friends at recess.
We whispered and giggled and pointed
at parts until my teacher caught us.
My parents fielded her phone call that night--what a fuss.
Suddenly I have to turn to look over my shoulder to find that little girl.
All three of us are adults now, having crossed over.
Cut from the same cloth,
yet so different in so many ways.
The miles and the passage of time
have made it difficult for me.
I struggle to pick up the phone.
There's so much I want to say, but I don't.
Things happen and you realize your siblings
are pieces of your puzzle and the vestiges of your childhood.
They will be there when everything else is gone.
I want to be a better sister if it's not too late.
I'll be like an archaeologist and sift through
the broken bones of time, the dirt clogging up the
hardened arteries of my heart.
I wonder if I'll have to dig deep?
I hope what I seek lies just beyond the surface.
With a little dusting off, some polishing, and
careful preservation, we'll be good as new.
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