Brooklyn No. 7

 Five years into life here, and I am realizing how tied my soul still is to where I came from. 

My sister stayed with me over my birthday. I wanted the week to be less rushed and more rest than previous visits. 

We spent hours talking, stretched across my bed that I now share with my husband. 

We sat at my worn wood table, legs folded up, hands wrapped around mugs of

 peppermint tea, 

sipping on sweet memories and 

new revelations that are only released through sister serenity. 

I felt part of my soul settle in my chest as I listened to her steps 

padding down the hallway. 

My life blood lives in my sister. It ebbs and flows as time and distance move between us. 

We are chinked together with Appalachian blood and a woman's grit on my mom's side, 

Catholic liturgy and a steady know-how from my dad. 

In a city that values individuality, I rejoice in my similarity--chalk up victory

in the cadence of my sister's laugh, and the twin words that slide over our tongues. 

Every wink of knowing and easy recollection of days once passed by another's side will 

live in infamy.  

Sister days are ruby days. 

Treasured up in my pocket, held gingerly in hand, taken out to inspect when I need a reminder of the gift I I possess.