“I’ll get there when I get there,”
and if I don’t? I wondered that
while we sat by the water those years
you still needed to look up to me, the graven
image of myself I dreaded and remade until
I learned who I was, from a distance:
I watched you wander woods I planted,
heard your voice echo in the foxholes
left behind by the Blitz of my childhood,
the kind of pauses in which music grows.
The closest thing I did to keeping you safe
was letting you go, letting silence fill the quiet,
leaves that fall between the gaps in the dock
that I revisit in the back of my head
while you reach forward toward me,
Like you did when you were stumbling,
but now because I teeter on the edge
of something we’ve both never seen,
you’ve always been my sister –
you have always been.
Heidi Turner is a writer and musician from Maui, Hawaii whose work explores the space between the hoped for and the moment of reality. She’s been published in The Adirondack Review, Linden Avenue Literary Journal, and The Woven Tale Press, amongst others.