On my sister’s bed,
The blankets are layered;
The first blue with yellow cartoon flowers,
The next soft pink with ribs,
Lace at the corners,
And a small brown spot
Towards the middle
Like a birthmark.
A stain,
Shaped like a balloon,
Or a hot air balloon.
And a huge red quilt
Covers the entire bed,
Even the pillows—
None of them have been washed
Since she’s been home.
I sleep on top of them all,
Just as I have every night
For five years.
Once before I went to sleep,
I looked in her closet
And explored her mess:
Her books, her shoes, her old prom dress—
Blue with brown polka dots,
Old jewelry, a worn black backpack—
Its separating seams like a railroad track
Its zipper was broken
And there was silver duct tape
Around it, that once kept the pack from being open—
Once.
Inside there were notes
From high school
Covered in doodles,
A school newspaper
With an article she wrote
On the front page—
The paper had been rolled up
To look like a telescope,
It’s been flattened over time,
And now only the tips
Of the corners point up.
Above, on the shelves,
Stuffed animals were placed
In a careful line,
All touching.
But one odd space.
What once kept it's place?
Could it have fallen
Behind the shelf,
Covered in dust now?
Or did she take it with her—
To put on her new bed,
New blankets,
New pillows?
Maybe it was the green bear
She's had since she was born.
Or maybe nothing
Was ever there.
I think it was the doll
That our grandmother
Bought for her
When she was seven.
The doll was wearing
A blue flowered dress,
White socks
Folded over,
With lace at the ends,
White Mary Jane flats,
Brown hair, and pale skin.
She looked probably as we did
On Easter Sunday
When we wore matching clothes.
I have the same doll.
Grandma always bought us the same thing
Because she knew
I’d want whatever
My sister had.
