I guess I always hoped
the conditions my father held for me
might be forgotten for my sister
when she was born,
and that love for her would never have to be earned;
that the kisses and soft words would last longer
than a couple of years,
the scorn that is absent in those first few months
lost forever in the wake of a miracle.

But of course, the wonders which paralyze us with
disbelief, and the promises we make in silence
are often forgotten.

Even at birth she was smiling,
or seemed so in her own silence.

She didn't need to write a single
poem for me to realize that she was more poet than I;
me, who spends hours trying to impress myself,
and her, a childhood life spent
wisely doing nothing but the frivolous,
a life which spoke volumes more
than the world I was trying to imitate.

Sitting next to her in the park
brings back the memory of the father we share,
and with him, my own promises I made in
the quiet of a hospital room, holding her,
and back unto the bench we share now.

She says my name, softly, smiling,
pointing to some place ahead,
maybe at the baseball diamond,
recently groomed, or the grass
mowed today while I was pushing her
on the swings; or perhaps the entire world,
though she says it doesn't matter.

I said, what's that?
She smiled.
Can't you see it? It's Dad.

Which is odd,
because our father has been gone
for quite some time now.