The summer at the drop-off, the summerwhen the boat floated to shorewith no one on it, the summera stranger on the streetspat in my face,every summer whenmy sisters were my comfort,my sisters to whom I confessedmy regrets. My sister who wouldsay: Just breathe, just asmy other sisterwould say: Just listen.I listened for them both,and when I answered the phonethe call didn’t comefrom either of them andI was on the floorlike someone trying to find safetyaway from smoke.I must have been breathing, of course,although I no longer had sisters.And now my sisters are at the airportwith no one to calm them or claim them,and they are alone with strangers,and no remedy occurs to me,to take an Uber, to call a taxi—and I am walking in what might bethe wrong directionwith others like me,and I am hoping thatif there’s a form ofconsciousness after lifeit’s not like this—our panicked running,unaware of eventhe simplest solution,that is, I have to hopedeath isn’t too much like life,for I’ve left my sisters aloneand they are waiting for me,and I am walking as fast as I canwhile they are waiting and waiting,and I willnever, never, never get thereeven if I had died first.
“Sisters,” by Lee Upton
admin
March 3, 2025
9 views
2 min read
Comments
Leave a Comment