Monday, October 14, 2019

love letter to my sister



you were Isabel, 
I was Nadine, remember?
the untouchable queens of Harvard Street
from behind our green fortress 
we entertained
our guests, 
 the curious neighborhood boys


they dared
ask questions,
leave letters in the mailbox,
 even climbed right onto our roof
perhaps
from there they heard
the loud voices in the house
that betrayed
our secret 
truth


remember when we used to play with fire?
we took apart broomsticks, lit them up on the stove.
ah, the neighbors did tell on us
but we did it again,
watching burning sticks  
 disappear 
into 
dust


sometimes we'd make tents out of blankets,
tying them up
to the windows and cabinets
electric wind 
would blow right in and
into caves
and
wild places
we were transported


when the days were warm and the Manila sun 
boasted 
just a bit too much,
a beach day was easily arranged
with a towel and umbrella 
right in our own
 garage



in those times
it was just you and me,
we'd fight over clothes, sing in perfect harmony,
we'd make beds out of cabinets,
turn couches into castles,
march down the street
in
quest
for ice candy


when night came upon us
we'd lay under the piano and listen to mother sing
she'd give us
our own
private
little concert,
words and melodies
that have never
faded away

.
.
.


in a blink of an eye,
decades now have passed,
you and I are on opposite sides of the world
far away
from home,
do you sometimes feel alone?
when you do,
 think
of the adventures we've shared




in time 

our eyes will crinkle when we smile,

 dried rivers fork their way through our skin.

still we will laugh

as we wade through shared memories


of childhood magic


and impossible


dreams