Four Poems: Graveside/ Another Summer/ A Younger Sister's Story/ Tears Come to Me in Walmart

A Younger Sister’s Story I will never be as tall, as old, as blue-eyed as my sister. I will never dance on a stage, marry my high school sweetheart, give birth to two children. In her shadow, my younger, smaller, shyer self, quietly followed in the footsteps she left behind — stumbling a bit, short of breath, trying to keep up, to live up to the dreams and images, she paraded around the dinner table Then, the world shifted, something changed as answers evolved into questions. When none of her hand me downs fit, I had to find my own wardrobe. I went to thrift stores, wore discarded Army jackets that took me down unfamiliar roads. I found discoveries beyond the boundaries of the neighborhood in which her presence was so large, so striking. She grew smaller and harder to see and hear, as I continued to become —just me. Another Summer Days elongate in the summer adding extra hours, slowing down the pace. Some days stand out in the bright glow full sunlight provides. Other days pile on top of one another making weeks speed along passing by so quickly. Seasons select the moments that will define them. The celebrations that create anniversaries, the losses that pierce our hearts when we notice who's missing, when we long for the places we left behind. Routines matter. Traditions hold us close to the earth keep us from falling off, from losing balance, from flying away in wandering reveries. This season’s summer has its particular signature — the family that showed up, the gatherings in circles that rekindled connections, brought back remembrances. Nothing is ever the same as it was. Something new inevitably shows itself. It may not be too late. It may be that this time this in-between, never having happened before time will bring us something entirely new and absolutely unexpected just as summer days are passing on. Graveside It's the sound. The sound of dirt and rocks falling from a shovel, falling onto the wooden top of the casket they lowered into the ground. The shovel is passed from spouse to the eldest child to the next in line, siblings, cousins, and friends. It's that sound of falling dirt and rocks that hurts the heart, awakens the sorrow of mourning accompanied by tears. The sound stays as an echo long after the weight of the shovel leaves your hands, the prayers of the mourners grow quiet, and the hugs of the family fade. The gravelly clacking of dirt and rocks on wooden slabs, returns on dark nights when we might have forgotten that the people we once loved are no longer here.