My invisible sister
shares coffee with me;
we watch for the sun to come up
together.
On some mornings
we walk to the pond
to look for egrets.
My invisible sister
fixes my hair before dinner.
She brushes it 100 times
and twists it in a perfect chignon.
I thank her with a quick hug
and we walk to the kitchen.
I make salad, tearing the tender leaves
while my invisible sister
pours wine, something white and light.
We talk about when we were children:
long afternoons at Grandma’s,
walking home from Girl Scouts,
skating at Mill Pond Park.
But we never talk about the day
at the old woolen mill
next to the waterfall;
that is a day I try to forget
every waking moment of my life.
My invisible sister
pours another glass of wine for us
and I keep on forgetting.
I’ve never had a sister, but always wanted one. That’s where this one started.
In Other Words 