Sister, The One Left

Sister, let’s not fight.
Let not words of bitterness, anger
pass between us.
Know that we love each other and always will.

We meet with friends of our most beloved,
departed middle sister.
We meet monthly, two remaining sisters,
two remaining dear friends, to honor her life.
She brings us together, these four who knew
her best.

Sharing a monthly meal, remembering her smile,
her wit, her politics.
In our monthly gather we see
each others’ near imperceptible changes
and comment on hair, health, a scarf, a pin,
some acknowledgement of love, of being seen.

We ask about the loved ones in our lives, spouses, brothers,
sisters, children. We ask about work, travel, the food.
We toast our lives, her life.
“Happy Birthday!” as glasses tinkle with touch.
“Happy Birthday!” has become our all purpose toast,
coined by a brother whose wit is used to confound others:
Someone always has a birthday, everyday!

The talk always turns to politics, and our sister is
watching and smiling from her place on the other side.
We all agree that things must change,
the insanity of their pay and benefits
while others suffer;
the hatefulness of their words meant to harm.
This is the worst it has ever been, even worse than
the nightmares of 1963 and 1968 and Nixon and Reagan.
This time is worse and God save us from their ignorance.

As we bullet fire our words across the table, my sister, my
sister’s friends, I, interrupt each other;
interject thoughts which can’t wait,
rapid words bursting into the packed din of shared ideas.

And it is always here, at this point, at this apex of our purposeful politicking
that you my sister feels slighted, left behind, unheard,
disrespected; by each, but especially by me.

Our banter winds down, our meal is ended, the next patrons eye our table.
We set another date to meet, next month again,
same time and place.

My sister has something to give me, so we walk to her car and she extracts a bag of her love.
A gift to her youngest sister, her flesh her blood
walking, talking in a separate body.
Always something extra from her home:
some fruit, dish soap, dog treats, a handy container;
something to share, to give, to extend the time, to extend her love.

And always at this time, the other two have long gone,
my sister tells me her hurt;
how she is not heard, not honored, interrupted, by each,
but especially by me.

And always I protest; not true, in fact she is the one who interrupts,
doesn’t let the others, but especially me, finish a sentence.
She vows to stop coming to our monthly meetings to honor our deceased sister.
She vents her hurt at her flesh, her blood, walking, talking in a separate body.
Her words fly, rapid fire, meant to show her hurt, her slight.

We must leave, we are loud in the California parking lot, someone might hear.
We say goodbye, “I’ll see you next week”.
We even kiss, give a slight hug; knowing we would always regret not doing so,
if the worst happens.
She always ends with:
But know that I love you.

And our sister is watching, smiling, silent, from her place on the other side.