A summer, I remember so well
although I was a shade too young
to sit still willingly and she, my sister,
was in love with Bill.
William and Silence enthroned
all over the premises . . . even
in our backyard

She was making him a sweater
the colour of Jailbird, our canary,
knitting so diligently, into what she told me
were called cables; looked like magic
to watch them appear in the yellow yarn
of Bill’s vest which would later be
blessed with a zipper.

But I wouldn’t stop hopping about,
so she sat me down
by our long-fingered willow,
found some old wool,
made me stick out
my indexes . . . and
taught me to flat knit

And today, all these decades later. . .

the willow has since been hit by lightning.
Bill was thirty-seven when bitten by the crab
and today . . . it is unbearable

Sitting by the window
that now looks out on nothing,
trying to knit myself a patience
and a peace, she stood before me
and called me mean and asked twice
why I refused to teach her
how to do it, that it looked
like fun

Memory alone is often cruel,
but to remember what has been erased
in one so close . . .

and when she saw me crying
she said she wouldn’t take it back
and served me right.

c.m.anderson
http://allpoetry-classic.com/catimini