Sisters

I don’t remember
when my sister was born,
life before her life
breathed memory
into my life.
I don’t remember
announcing
anticipating
arrival,
only gradual awakening
to the only reality
that ever would be.
You can tell me stories of
days before her days
merged life
with life—
they’re just B.S. theories.
I am not convinced
I was ever me before she
took my hand
said my name
called me
her own
sister.

When sisters are born
the universe takes notice.
They are galaxies,
expressions of the same
bits of mystery
dancing among the stars
to the music of future stories
written on their souls,
sparking across
the distance of
hand to hand
as they share the road,
electrifying
the space between
heart to heart
as they bear the load
when their maps
diverge
and bear them
into realities that
never should have been.
They are
laughter and tears
hope and fear
fire and ice,
a controlled burn
lighting up the night
radiating heat
to warm their hands
and souls
as they forge a path through
the uncharted void
to find the other half of
one whole
heart.

I am not convinced
I am ever really me
without
my sister.