Sisters

love
Shortly after my dear friend Margie's husband died from Cancer; I heard of a young mom at my church who had lost her sister to Cancer. Cathartically, I spent hours on her brother-in-law's gorgeously written website: http://forleslie.blogspot.com/ weeping and praying with my tears as I read stories of love and loss and unexpected leaving. So much of it reminded me of my arduous, beautiful, mercy-laden journey with Margie. So much of it made me feel connected to this young woman though I did not know her personally.

Every Sunday at church I prayed for her, wondered how she was doing - - knowing that she was in the thick grieving the loss of her sister and, at the same time, helping her brother-in-law care for his young motherless son. Every Sunday, I wondered how the woman's heart was doing, if it was empty with the aching gnaw of loss like mine. If she was exhausted or at peace or both . . . or neither. I wondered how losing a sister was different from what I experienced with Margie; and if there was anything I could do or say to lighten (or fill?) the loss. Last Sunday, in the middle of the service, a poem came. I'm not sure if I'll share it with the woman, or not. But, it follows.

Sisters

I don't have a sister.
You did.

In a picture the two of you
sit on a bench together.
You're both smiling,
looking so pretty,
mirrors of one another,
happy, sisterly: companioned.

What's it like to have a
sibling like yourself
yet different
knowing you intuitively
by shared propinquity
and life

to laugh at insider jokes,
remember the color of wallpaper
in childhood rooms and
the exact slope of backyard

the swing set there and sandbox
where you shared secrets and
fought over who'd be
Queen of the Sandcastle

to disagree and know that
blood and chromosomes link
you together inextricably like
stitches in a hand knit blanket?

Now she has left unexpectedly
and I wonder where she is.
In the ground? In the sky?
Both? Still companioning you?
Your countenance in church
says you miss her ineffably
but know exactly where she is.

I imagine her whispering the
location to you in a sunset or
falling leaf, in the simple symbol
of a dream, or shiver on the
back of your neck.

I don't have a sister.
You always will.