Photograph, Summer 1981
In this one my sister is 20, our mother 42,
one year away from finding the lump. Why must that be
the time line? They pose on a chaise lounge
in bathing suits, my sister leaning back
into our mother. This is how Peggy learned to love
the sun. When old enough, I—brash like that—
splashed on oil and fell asleep outside.
But I never tan, only burn, and this is a photo of them,
not me. There are infinite reasons to envy
your sister—for example, because you’ll never keep
a memory of sitting with your mother as an adult.
When my sister saw the picture 25 years later
she had forgotten it—how our mother touched
her back with one finger, the others drawn,
hovering like honey bees as if too much touch
would mean pulling apart later like the raw
and tender skin that sloughs from living layers.
What mark lingers long enough?
Not the color from their sun, nor the pattern
left by the lattice of the chaise lounge—
those red squares branded on their bodies.
(First published in Miller’s Pond)
