My sister signed up for show choir in the spring
while sieges broke out from Waco to Sarajevo.
By fall she’d registered for radiation and chemo.
In between I got my driver’s license and drove us
to Sleepless in Seattle and Jurassic Park, so when
her treatment started, my father said I could drive
her there, too. Every afternoon my mother fell into
Donahue and Day of Our Lives and boxes of doughnuts,
building a shield thick with sugar and soap operas,
but the pain pierced her bones anyway. Sundays
we all piled into the blue station wagon for Mass,
even the baby. Fingered holy water and rosary beads,
watched the sun move through the Stations of the Cross,
feasted on the body and blood of Jesus. The rest of us
complained she was trying to skip Confession when
my sister said she could no longer rise from her sheets.
The day she died, two blue-clad policemen rang our
bell, ticket books in hand. My father had parked
the station wagon askew, rear tires sticking out over
the sidewalk, too close to the street. The neighbors
tried to intervene, explain away the fineable offense
with the body of a dead child, but they couldn’t say
too much. What was 150 bucks compared to resisting
arrest? My father thanked the officers and watched
their black-and-white cruiser turn the corner, then
dropped the keys in my hand. My brothers slinked
down the basement stairs, put a record on repeat
and screamed into the couch cushions. My mother
lit a candle under the painting of Mary and began
to pray. And I started my father’s car, lifted my sister’s
hospital band from the backseat, and laid my hand
on the horn until every bird in every tree took flight.

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Image: “Out Of Focus” by Nicole Monroe