Tassels of ebon hair

That spilled over your shoulders Like rich coffee

With a hint of creme.

You smiled at me

With those freckles that stood out against your pale skin

And those rosy red lips

And called me your sister.

 

You didn't mind at all;

That I watched my mother's soul

Slip out of her body one Friday morning

Five years ago

And I forgot what it meant to be a daughter.

 

You didn't mind at all;

All of those anxious ramblings I went on

And how I confessed that I needed antidepressants

To stay afloat, and resist the urge

To throw myself into the stream of traffic.

 

You didn't mind at all;

That my skin was a different hue,

My hair a different texture and length,

My size and build too contrary to your own

To be biologically related.

 

(In fact you told me that these things were beautiful -

That I was beautifully and wonderfully made -

Even after members of my own family

Even after friends long forgotten

Tried to convince me

That they were not.)

 

You didn't mind at all;

In fact you treated me to lunch

And listened as I shyly shared details of myself

That I told no other living soul

Over noodles with sesame seeds.

 

For once in my life;

I found something I didn't find in the therapists

Who pinched their lips in half-smiles

And told me

Not so subtly

That I was too difficult.

 

You didn't tell me

That I was throwing a pity party.

 

You didn't hand me over

To someone else.

 

You didn't even ask me

To stop talking.

 

You instead took my hand

Smiled that rosy smile

And told me that I was lovingly made

By God Himself.

 

And you called me your sister.

Your little sister.