Laura, now that you are gone

Sometimes I start

To walk across the street

To your house before I realize

You died more than a month ago.

The plaque you sent me

With its sentimental words

And pink flowers,

Hangs in my den.

Looking at it, I realize

You must have known

You would die soon,

And wanted me to know

You loved me,

Though we didn’t say it

To one another.

Sister, who was so different from me,

Sister, who called for me and I came to you,

Even slept all night in your hospital room

In a hard plastic chair to make sure

You didn’t die in the night,

Sister, whose frail, twisted hand

I held in mine,

Sister, who called me on my birthday,

And though you were having trouble breathing,

You called, “Mary, Mary, Where are you?”

And then you sang  “Happy Birthday to you,’

Happy birthday to you,”

All your energy and desire to live

Caught in your husky, faltering voice

That I hear in my head now

When I think of you.

Maria Mazziotti Gillan