Two Sisters and a Brother
Two Sisters and a Brother
Grief knocked at my door.
Her sister Joy chattering off her ear,
smelling like oranges and old books.
I let them both in because the house was too quiet,
and the kettle sang while morning light pooled on the floor.
Grief, somber as could be, sat right beside me
and took the seat with the wobble.
as Joy pulled up a chair and peeled an orange
with her thumbnail.
We drank weak tea from chipped cups,
three of us at a table too small for the world we carry.
The sun filtered in through half-closed drapes.
The darkness still clung to the corners of the room.
Grief traced circles in the steam
until the cup went cold
while Joy hummed a song I’d almost forgotten
under her breath.
Finally Grief spoke up,
her voice thin as paper,
quietly reminding me that her brother Love had not forgotten me.
Indeed, He was there this very moment.
He was the sunlight trying to filter through,
to open the drapes to my soul and let Him in.
So I reached out with tired hands
and pulled the drapes just wide enough
for Love to sit down with us too,
and warm the wobbly chair.
For one day Love announced, “I will wear my sister’s face.”
Love and Grief forever intertwined,
as Joy sat back, sticky-fingered, and smiled to comfort me.
And in the morning light,
two sisters and a brother broke bread at my table.
The crust was hard. The middle was soft.
and for the first time all week,
I wasn’t hungry for anything else.
The table was already set for four.
I just hadn’t seen the fourth chair until now.