The Pact

 
In the corner of our kitchen
my sister and I share
among all the cobalt blue family
collectibles, tiny treasures
we favored the most
quickly taken before the house
foreclosed, stands a four foot tall
sturdy plant from our father’s funeral.
It was our choice to choose from

pretty vases filled with delicate flowers,
green plants in fancy pots,
eloquent bouquets tied in ribbon knots,
and greeting cards of yellow sorrow.
Two years watering our plant
a symbol, we won’t forget,

though there were
long periods of neglect.
Those are the times our bodies
were dying of thirst,
to live, to breathe, and awaken
from the dry earth,
our wilting leaves slowly crusting brown

but the few sips to share, under
the influence were desperate
confessions under the table,
like we used to hide from the world
as kids beneath tent sheets.
Finally, what we were feeling
put into words.

With our blood shot eyes
and tear stained cheeks,
a pact was agreed upon
to never give up. I have to say,
“Emma without you
all this, I could never get through.”