We hardly get together anymore,
now that we’re busy with our families.
So, when my oldest sister calls to ask
if she, her husband, son, and new puppy
can come and visit, I say, “Yes, of course!
—only you’ll have to leave the puppy home,”
blaming my cats and husband for my no.
She bristles at her end when I say so,
who once took orders from her. The visit
goes downhill from there: she accusing me
of being anal, rigid, controlling:
her mean shrink-talk, which I point out to her.
Still, when my sister leaves I press my hand
on her window, and she presses her hand
from the inside, looking into my eyes,
as if we were about to part for life,
she to a foreign country where she’ll learn
new words for the world that we once shared.
Years hence, perhaps a great-grandson returns
to see the place that meant the world to her.
Already in this life, we’ve strayed away
to husbands, puppies, the way she believes
guests should be treated vs. my theories.
“If you can call them theories,” she retorts.
At night, I hear her remaking the bed
the way she likes it, the sides not tucked in.
And I recall how when we first arrived
in this country, she’d yank her blankets loose
and reach across the gulf between our beds
to hold hands on those nights I was afraid.