I've heard the creak of the stairs
as she passes over them
for the eleventh time today,
laundry basket wrapped around her hip,
its soft plastic shape
molded to the curve of her
from the number of times she's held it close.

I've heard the silence of a muted television
when he lets the flatscreen lives pass by
as my sister starts in on another story,
laughing about children he will never meet
and looking into her
to remember how much of him she is.

I've heard the warmth of two voices joined into one
from the telephone pressed closely to my ear
both of them sitting in separate rooms,
a different receiver in each of their hands,
as if our living room is the size of this whole country
and the arm chairs in it are rooms
in which we each sit,
the phones walkie-talkies we've made
a part of this game
of pretending that we are all together,
conversing across the fireplace
of New England autumn and
the blue carpet of Lake Erie.