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Maria Etre Dec 2019
Her.

“Good Morning gorgeous”
echoes down the hall
her voice altered
into a decibel
that she created
a clear tone only meant
to the one who knows

I have looked at her for 27 years
and counting, I witnessed growth
naturally aligned with her stars
never gone astray
with a mind for a compass
a heart to balance and a body to embrace
those who need

Her strength bewitched me
from mishaps to miracles
her legs never failed her
from tree climbing to moving houses
from cartwheels to driving in foggy weather
Her courage moved me
from enduring unfairness
to teaching about fairness
her rationale calmed me
and it was when she carried her baby
that I felt mother nature adopt her into motherhood
blessing her with power unknown to man
with endurance with love, with intensified
fountains of love, waterfalling everyday
every night into her baby’s heart
filling her with a glow only she knows how to grow

I saw her in a different light
with her own world between her arms
marveling at the strength that body has
to carry and nourish

She has become a mother
even though from time to time
I still steal a glance at the sister I knew
but I, now, am the proud sister of a mother.
Dedicated to my sister, Jessica
Sisterhood is not that fancy
There may be way
Each of your toes curl when you eat a good meal
How significantly brown your eyes are
Those long intricate conversations
How long and streaky the hairs on your head are
How you put your leg in front of the other impatiently
The way you hold each others hand when crossing the street
How many scoops you each like and the colour of your ice-cream cone
How you try to divide anything and everything
Or how you long for your sister when she is not there
But sisterhood is not that fancy
It's the inability to get your voice heard
The many tears
How less of your opinion counts
The silent whispered conversations when everyone thinks you are sleeping
How some mistakes are more permanent than others
Sisters by chance ,friends by choice
Carmen Jane Nov 2019
Best sisters at play
Throwing leaves in air, all day,
Sweet childhood, sweet play
Alyssa Gaul Oct 2019
I hug my mother most in the kitchen.
She reaches up to wrap her arms
around me, and I lay my head
on her shoulder. We breathe
together, relax into one another.
The oak wood under our feet creaks
with each shift of weight. The kitchen is

warm like her. Though that dead plant sits
in the window, we are full of life.
My mother’s fake green grapes and strands of
ivy weave above our heads;
our own personal jungle.
The red-brown cabinets and
bright yellow lights
shine down around us as we sway,
rubbing each others’ backs with a soft hum.

We fit together: mother, daughter.
Since childhood I have not been afraid
to run to her soft speckled skin and be held
by her, even when I was tall
enough to do the holding myself.
We have the same nose,
same smile,
same droop to our right eye.
Same tendency to accidents
like knife cuts
or oven burns
or trips over nothing.
Who am I
but a part of her?

My sister pads into the kitchen
on tiptoes— a habit she could never break
since a child. I see her quiet eyes
flicker downward,
see her scoot herself away from
my mother’s arms
see her close into herself
instead. She stares at the dead plant.

If her skin were a costume, she would
tear it off and never wear it again.
Instead of my mother’s nose,
she thinks she sees
my father’s stubble.
Not my mother’s dimpled smile
reflected back, but my
father’s Adam’s apple.
When we tell her she is
beautiful, she fiddles with her men-sized shoes.
We cannot convince her to
touch us when she is afraid to touch
herself.

We fit together: mother, daughter, daughter.
We sit at the island counter, playing
MarioKart on the kitchen TV,
talking about nothing really,
but to my sister it is
everything.
Our mother laughs like bells.
Who are we
but a part of her?
Carmen Jane Sep 2019
Let me tell you a story
As we are gathered here
It's about a princess
And her name is Josephine
I know you're busy
To praise my older sister
I know she just did
This amazing thing at swimming
Yet my story is great
Cause that princess is me
And you all smiled
When I told you her name.

I wish I knew how to continue my story
But for now I'm pleased
Cause you were all looking at me
I could continue
But I had a hard day
You took my sister and me
To this amazing place
They had ballerina dresses
And leotards and tutus
Yet we were there
To find the right tap shoes
I took my shoes off
So I can try them on
Yet you put my shoes right back
And explained I'll have to wait
As we were there
To find the right tap shoes
Just for my big sister
I am not upset at all
I know I can grow
And one day I might tap
In the same shoes you bought.

Trust me, I am thankful
That you asked about my room
Which is my favorite color
As you'll get to paint it soon
I am only two
And as we are all gathered
I would like to tell you
A little story
About a princess
Her name is Josephine
My 2 year old daughter , who might or not have a different name, announced she had a little story to tell us...:)
Mia Mehnaz Mar 2019
Time had evaporated into the dingy air of the hospital
Day merged to night, night to day.
Sleep turned to endless bouts of prayer and whispering into your ear. Whispering that it wasn't your time yet,
That everyone was waiting for you to come back.
All that came back to my ears
were the incessant beep of machinery
Machinery that was your lifeline,
that kept your beautiful heart beating.
Coiled and crimped tubes running in and out of your body
And you looked frighteningly ethereal;
A ghostly angel in the place of my sister.
A tangle of exterior veins; pumping foreign liquids into you
And though I loathed the thought of those cold substances
Stealing away the warmth from your blood, they kept you safe.
They ushered you away
From that distant white shore,
We have come to call death.
Until one day they simply could not save you any longer.
But there was a lingering flame
Amongst the grief that was waiting to pounce
Because? You were fighting.
Like a soldier you were fighting,
With your bare hands struggling against the predator called death.
You fought with every last ounce of will in your body,
Until God called your name,
And you grew your wings, and you left.
Visitors come and go
An endless flurry of desperate hugs
Fairy-like kisses upon my cheek; soaked, saturated in tears.
Because that was the first time,
I had ever felt absolutely, completely, powerless.
I was shrinking back into a shell of myself,
Speak when spoken to I reminded myself.
And through the night I would choke back my fear,
And I sang to you. Childhood melodies.
And they seemed so far away; out of my grasp.
I clutched a strangers hand
Your hand, was delicate and soft
This hand was swollen; foreign.


But I didn’t let go. Not yet.
I ran my hand through your hair,
And I didn’t get the scent, of lavender and soap.
I retched. Inhaling something harsh.
Because as I put one finger to your head,
It came away with blood.
Still.
You layed so, so, still.
Your chest rising and falling; with breaths that weren’t yours.
And I still,
Still, read you stories and talked to you-
In that scarce hope that you would wake up,
And I could hug you for real.
Not having to heave myself over you;
Being delicate, in fear of choking you.
But I still hoped.
God, I hoped with everything in me that you would make it.
I prayed on my knees,
Screaming in a silent room that,
I would abandon my faith- if God stole you from me.
And yet, stolen from me you were.
The doctors were hopeless,
Reminding us- the damage is irreversible.
If not today, you would die tomorrow.
But I would not desert you.
I still hoped.
I hoped.
I kept hoping.
And the next day came.


The day before you died.
The white sun broke through the window,
Embraced the room and clarified.
The shadows that the limbs,
Of the simple oak tree make on the hospital wall;
Stark and bellowing.
The leaves are all gone.
The leaves and the colour are gone.
The tree is devoid of youth and joy;
And in the tree- I see you.
It hurts.
You are the mannequin of a sleeping girl.
But the heaviness of you,
As though your insides have turned to lead.
I believe it is lucid now,
A dying girl.
Trapped in a coma.
Tomorrow, you’ll be gone.

My sister’s eyes are closed.
I pull her closer,
Inhale what remnants of her pure scent is left.
I want to hold her, In this world.
Keep her close,
Let her never to leave- not yet.
Her hair brushes my cheek.
She is still sleeping-
Why is she still sleeping?
And then,
I begin to cry
I do not stop,
And I lay my sister down.

On the white sheet.
My sister,
Her eyes flutter open.
And sees shadows,
Sparrows on the wall.
Flocking to the naked limbs of the simple oak tree.
She smiles,
A small, beautiful smile.
And she points to the shadows on the wall and says


“It’s okay now, look, the leaves are returning to the tree.”
This is probably the most personal thing I have ever written. The most raw, the most real account of my sisters death. This poem doesn't speak of my grief, as my others do. But rather takes on the perspective of the girl I was when my sister was dying, A small thank you for reading, God bless you all <3
ollie Jul 2018
I am left to admit that I am not the best sibling to those I am left with
Though I am trying
It is the little things
And a little girl named after her grandmother
Who died two months before she was born
As long as I live nothing will be made to happen to her that is not of the utmost benefit
oatt and aist
abby Jul 2018


the skylark summons the dead to rise as you watch with cloudy, wishful eyes

our sisterhood survives throughout the dark
they will never silence our voices
when we call to the tune, the world rejoices

wild child, living in a fantasy
wild child, the myth lives on within you
wild child, you create your own dreams
wild child, enchant them
do what you do

the white cat knocks over the lamp with a smile
a sea of tears flows from your eyes as deep as the Nile
a mirage is in sight, a vision it seems
the fabric of your sadness is ripped at the seams
we weave a spell together, fashioned stitch by stitch
you look to me and laugh, mischievous like a witch

our sisterhood still lives on through the dark as we wait for the time to leave our mark
they will never silence our voice
when the world calls our tune we will rejoice

fuera puera, vivens in autem fantasia
fuera puera, quod fabula vitae on intra vos
furea puera, vos creo tuus agnosco somniums
fuera puera
lamia
facio qualis vos facio
I tried with the Latin, please message me telling me how to fix it if a false translation bothers you! thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy. blessed be
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