Grown Ups

Seven Smurfs spread across the right side of the page. The first holds a barbel with one hand. Another holds a bindle over their right shoulder. The third holds a pot and a cooking spoon and the fourth plays a lute. The next holds a tennis racket and tennis ball. The sixth wears round glasses and holds a book. The last Smurf holds two drumsticks in front of a drum.

Cara’s visit

is filled with laughter.

Singing goofy pop songs,

loudly and out of tune

and with all our hearts.

We relive our walks

to a nearby 7-Eleven, Cara confesses

she envied the way

Christopher and I

made up stories together.

Imaginative ideas,

effortlessly flowing.

Five Smurfs spread across the right side of the page. The first wears round glasses and a backpack and holds a walking stick. The second holds a mushroom like an umbrella. The third Smurf has long light-colored hair, wears a dress, and holds a tennis racket. Another holds three flowers. The final Smurf holds a fishing rod.

I admit their closeness in age

made me feel outside,

stuck playing lookout

as they scooped handfuls of quarters

from the mall fountain

money to buy

an army of Smurf figurines.

We lounge in the basement sanctum

comparing notes on our “childhood.”

bonding over smelly lunch thermoses

filled with milk

and Mom’s homemade

brown bread sandwiches

that no one would trade.

We discuss Cara’s

college scholarships,

and the novel I’m writing

talking about writing.

Together we mourn our Noah’s Ark

of dead pets.

Lying

side-by-side

contemplating

my Pollock-esque ceiling,

I’m reminded of

our couch fort oasis

she and Christopher and I

snuggling shoeless

watching TV shows

too young for me.

We scarf cheeze doodles,

ice cream,

and Mannequin.

Epic love between

muse and artist

can happen, right?

Cara falls asleep

I watch her,

torn.

My gut churns.

You seriously keeping that?

I sneak into the other room

sweaty palms gripping

small blue trashcan.

Utterly desperate.

When my sister starts

her journey home,

I’m struck by the way

she’s rearranged everything

in my life

to seem like

a swimming pool-sized

empty hole.

A square trash bin lined with a plastic bag.