sharp points

Big sister, today you are 63.

One year, six days, and 21 hours

older than me, as we carefully worked it out,

together, the year we were turning 8 and 9.

These days we say nothing to each other.

I do hope you are happy, whatever

that means in your life now. I won’t ask.

I’m finally just sad about it all,

the ridiculous fuss mom made of her

feelings, tossing us like tumbleweeds,

teaching us to fight against each other

so we didn’t ask her for anything.

Sad how that turned us to enemies

when we might have been allies.

I took the pattern for the print on this dress

from a terra cotta bowl in a museum.

Once it held something — food, seeds?

Now it hangs on a wall, where people

come to look at it occasionally.

The life of the design comes from its

sharp points, still vivid across the centuries.

Be well, old rival.