Snowqualmie is calling
in a voice disguised as
Thanksgiving.
It's still dark, and leaves
come in russet waves
across rain-slicked
pavement. Two days ago,
the breeze blew you in.
I hosted the feast,
but you fed me.
Now silence has fallen.
I fear the starting over--
the dread of again
being an only child.
Sister, each visit is diving
for the first time
into the deep end.
Each meeting,
the steep descent
into who I am
and who I fear I'll never be:
not brave enough
to live the way you do:
fully entrenched,
the mind's eye gleaming
with the next big adventure:
you are Teton winters and Hawaii
on the horizon, and I am lost
in some Idaho mist, fitful,
fretting over how long
the trip is and counting
on borrowed fingers how many
firsts I haven't had.
My stories are always filled
with last year,
and how powerful a foe
the past is. You seem
to have no history,
or if you do, you've
written it in a glorious
blaze the first time.
To my no-regrets sister,
I love you. I love your accent,
mile-a-minute mind,
frenetic hands fluttering
at the ends of arms
attached to body
in constant motion.
I look to the hands folded
placidly in my lap and think
clods, heavy, jealousy.
I'm ashamed in my sleep--
bad dreams, but I tell
you over coffee about
nightmares that aren't even my own.
When we meet again, I want
to be less breeze and more blow.
I want to be the steady light
of high beams but
also welcome night.
I want to pack lightly
every once in awhile.
I want the jumble of
maps I can't ever
seem to fold and the luxury
of choosing not to look.
I want not the reflection
in the rearview mirror
but open roads and
the courage to travel them.
I want you to play North.
Next time, you be host.
Smile your bright smile
and hug me when, tired
exhilarated, I make it
to your door.
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