I was living far from home, walking,
the gutters teeming with leaves,
and I thought about my sibling dying.
I wondered sometimes if loving something
filled you with the greed of thieves
to make sense of living far from home, walking.
I would miss them in a way that’s unending,
a single event that, through all their stories, cleaves—
are my thoughts about my sibling dying.
I concern myself with stories of them growing,
moments of pride simple reprieves,
while I am living far from home, walking.
I cannot protect them from everything,
so what does it matter if it’s me first who leaves?
I do not have to think about my sibling dying.
That thought those years ago was startling,
because I am filled with a happy love, everyone believes.
Yet, I was living far from home, walking,
thinking about my sibling dying.
Recommendation: My Sister’s Keeper by Jodi Picoult