—for my unborn sister

Five years before me. Mom
tried, please know. You’d
be 33

now. I know you’d be beautiful. Probably’ve
had curly hair & dimples. I asked
mom about you

once, but never again. Her face
dropped to sadness when I did. I hate
to upset her,

so I took the words she
gave me & shaped you myself
inside my thoughts. I wonder

if you would’ve been protective
over me? I know that I would
guard you with

my fists & life. I love you,
even though your soul
never blossomed

into living shape. I love you because
we would’ve shared blood
& name. Sometimes,

when I’m alone, I think of you. I don’t
tell mom or dad, though. I think
of you pushing

me on swings & playing wildly
in the summer heat. I think
of similar

interests & wonder if we would’ve argued
‘til dad gave us one of his
“looks.” Be thankful

you’ve never gotten one of those. They
could knock a tree off its roots. He’s very
loving, though. He’d probably’ve

babied & spoiled you. He loves kids. Me
too. I want to teach
kindergarten—

& I would’ve been the perfect uncle to your
kids. But instead, you never birthed me a niece
or nephew. Never

will I see your smile or hear you speak. I write
these words to create fullness for the emptiness of you
being absent. The

next time I smell the aroma of happiness,
I’ll know it’s you blooming a smile
above me to pick.