The sun has not yet fully risen
here in the city
as if she is tired from what the
rest of this month has put her through.
But I think you are probably up,
your infant daughter on your lap,
her gentle cooing over the discovery
of her fingers.
I can picture you
on your blue sofa,
the music playing softly
the coffee on the table.
The quiet settling of the floorboards.
And I wish I was there.
We would talk about
when we were little before the house was painted blue.
we would pull out those old stories,
and the streamers our mother would hang from the lights.
About the woods behind the neighbor’s house.
We would joke about our father’s
green lawn mowing sneakers
and the time with the golf club
that ended in me losing a tooth.
We would laugh softly
in case your daughter nodded off.
and for a moment that time wouldn’t
feel so long ago,
and neither of us would feel
the days stretching ahead and behind.
I wish I was there, this morning
on your birthday
but the best I can do,
are these words on this page,
a love letter
from one sister
letting you know
you are being thought of right now
as you are,
as this new mother
a thing of beauty and comfort
your hands cupping the feet of your daughter
a small song unknowingly escaping your parted lips
but also as you were back then, when the world was smaller
a thing of beauty and energy
and white hot streaking summer light
an explosion of laughter
in the time when we were both little girls.
10 hours ago