It was, indeed, a joyous occasion.
My sister turning seventy.
I, five years her senior.
Remembering her return from the hospital.
Her jaundice, transfusion.
My mother’s long illness.
Landing her in bed.
Yet, here we are.
Baby sister, well.
Three score, ten.
Aging like the rest of us.
Sibling group still intact.
No holes in the cloth.
Taken care of, washed, hung to dry.
Ironed, folded, treasured.
Too bad parents not with us,
sharing in each milestone.
But I’m sure their spirits hover.
We’re never here alone.
Lynn Benjamin
May 24, 2024
