Sister

I am not sure if we became like mothers

when we lost ours,

or if we always were.

Lost is an appropriate word

because we are always searching for her.

Maybe she’s hiding,

and that’s why she’s not at every party,

every birthday, or this new funeral.

Sister got a hold of my father’s credit card

and went rogue on Amazon.

Day after day, brown boxes brought to my front door

delivered by her special brand of humor

to help make the spaces between death funny.

Rubber chickens

Neon socks

Vegan cupcakes for non-vegans

Frogs for the memory garden

A Danny DeVito pillow to snuggle at night.

She is the one that does the dishes.

She is the one who sweeps up the glass.

She is the one that wears a tiara when delivering your remains.

She is the one who rolls up to my house in her SUV,

gets in bed with me when I can’t get out.

She is the one that called my inner circle.

She is the one that gave the impossible news.

Can we please praise the brave here?

Praise the sister who made the call.

Praise the sister who holds my boys.

Praise the sister who texts a half dozen times a day.

Praise the sister who, when she hugs me,

grabs my head and holds.