Sharyl Collin

Sisters

We leave the trail and weave

through spring grasses

that tickle our calves,

our father, with Super 8

movie camera in hand

and a script in his head,

directing from the rear. 

 

I am fourteen, awkward

with my assignment

to sit cross-legged in the grass

and pull petals from a poppy

while calling “He loves me,

he loves me not.”

 

“Make it sing-songy,” he tells me,

the camera too close to my face.

I am afraid no one will ever love

my acne-scarred skin

and second-hand wardrobe.

 

It is my sister’s turn.  We are used

to his directions.  “Sing us a song,”

he commands, waiting behind

the lens with the patient smile

of one watching an artist

paint something precious. 

Not like the smile he uses

for me.

 

Her voice takes a moment to catch

as she starts the Mickey Mouse song,

and I know she will always

be more beautiful than me.

 

She’s singing off-key

I tell myself, turning away.

 

The Last Bloom

With sharpened shears

and mud-stiffened gloves

I walk into the yard feeling

like the grim reaper.

 

A warm wind blows.

I am folded into an eddy, debris

whirling around my ankles

before settling in a pile

under the table.

 

But the warmth is just a show. 

The earth has been folding in

on itself for weeks.  It is time

to slumber no matter how much

I resist the bedding down

of another year.

 

I begin to pare, pot by pot,

snip, clip, thump.  The cast off limbs

echo as they land at the bottom

of the bin.

 

Near the end, I stop at a new bloom

a lone daisy in a sea of shriveled heads,

as a widowed war bride, yellow petals

waving in the breeze.

 

Admiring its insistence

on coming in its own time,

I picture the crystal bud vase

I will use to set it on the table.

 

As I turn back to my work

I am startled to see my neighbor,

just over the fence, her friendly presence

at odds with the pounding in my chest. 

 

We are still laughing

when my barking dogs burst in,

determined to keep order

in their quarter acre.

 

We catch up as I continue to prune. 

I’m grateful for her company.

It keeps me from the darker thoughts

that weigh when the summer goes. 

 

In time, our talk is finished

and the pots are back in place,

skeletal frames waiting

for the next season.

 

I bend to sweep under the table,

and in the pile I find

the rescued bloom. 

 

I pick it up, ready to revive,

but it is too late,

the petals squashed, its beauty

held only in my memory.

 

Swirl

The mustard stain

on my sister’s cheek

is driving me crazy

as we slide across the back seat,

 

seesawing our way

up the mountain road,

our father’s solution to filling

another long day of visitation.

 

There is something in his gaze

that piques my interest as he pulls

to the side of the road.

 

Opening the door, my sister and I

are embraced by a galaxy of wildflowers.

Set off against the deep blue sky,

they dance in a celestial swirl

above our heads.

 

My father begins, pulling up

a stalk of yellow lupine and tossing

it into the trunk, roots and all. 

He remind us that our mother

loves the yellow ones.

 

My sister and I exchange smiles

and join in the harvest,

wondering if our parents

might get back together. 

Flowers fly like shooting stars

as we fill the trunk.

 

When another car approaches,

our father dives deep

beneath the canopy of flowers. 

Surprised, we join him, crouching

face to face as he whispers,

“This might be illegal!”

 

Our laughter explodes and I

am carried away by the rare touch

of my father, the wonder

in my sister’s smile and the miracle

of wildflowers.