Only you and I carry that October night
that smelled like burning leaves and hot cider
when Dad wrapped his face in Ace bandages
and put on sunglasses and a leather jacket.
He walked all over the neighborhood.
No one knew who he was.
Only you and I are left.
Only you remember walking to the tennis court with me
for our lessons every summer first thing in the morning,
your sweaty little hand clutched in mine.
You were an ace by the time you were seven.
I couldn’t master the forehand.
Nobody but you remember Mom browbeating me
to practice the piano long into the night, my tears, her shouts.
And afterwards, her running the bath
and smoking her one cigarette a day in the tub, luxuriously.
Only you remember our nicknames:
Apollo and Diana, the sun and the moon.
Only you and I are left, but how did we get here?
Did we leave a mark, an artifact of the lives we lived,
a fossil record?
Is there a glitch in the matrix where we can relive
a simple family dinner (preferably one with no drama)
or Christmas Eve?
Because it’s important.
Only you and I are left, and it’s been so long.
You are the foundation and the landscape of my life.
Only you remember why I didn’t have a doorknob
and why I stole the McDonald’s cake.
Only I remember Guzzy and the spiders on the wall
in the little bathroom.
When you didn’t show up to Mom’s deathbed,
I lied and told her you were there and that you loved her.
I thought she deserved that.
At least.
That’s the thing about love and loathing.
All your grievances are irrelevant.
You and I are the only ones left.
I was there at the beginning.
I am your sister.
Just because you don’t love me,
doesn’t mean I have to accept it.
