letter to my sister on our late mother's birthday

we used to climb trees together

and run through woods

at seven

we claimed territory in forests-

“home” was a word we read in books.

we practiced war faces. we

packed suitcases.

i saw your face over the bonfire

laughing, often in the summer while

we read and played with cats.

we made jokes to the flight attendant

the entire way to tucson and when

we landed they made fun of our boots.

our shadows have stretched

further than those trees we climbed.

no longer can we dream

of arizona, or sault ste. marie

it’s been awhile since i’ve seen you

or your face over a bonfire

it’s been longer since i’ve

seen you laugh.

we still pack suitcases, though

our war faces replaced with poker

and i know our boots

have only gotten heavier.

and though we both claim separate territories

in different places

now

i implore you not

to forget about the days

we used to climb trees together