My sister\'s staying. Things are not

My sister\'s staying. Things are not

My sister\'s staying. Things are not

My sister’s staying. Things are not
where I’m used to finding them. This time
I tell myself it doesn’t matter. This time
I’m the one who has been cut. The poem
I wrote for her has come back to bite me.
So she is here to help. She’s already done
the garden, finishing off the jobs her sister started.
The peace lily my mother gave me when my father died
has been re-potted and is doing well beneath the camellia.
Today we walked to Market Town for a little bit of retail
therapy: DVDs and shoes. We also saw a movie called
Brokeback Mountain, which, according to the publicists,
is about gay cowboys. In fact it’s more about
how love isn’t always able to be
what you want.
We also watch her favourite TV shows, most of which
seem to be about the supernatural. And every now and then
she says something that lets me know how she coped
with her cancer. Keeping company, we are aware
of how living and dying reach out to each other, learning to be
at ease in my new leather lounge. It’s good: we’re still here
for the moment and that will have to be enough.