Sisters
Judy Lorenzen

I listen to her talk about her sister,
their family fight since their mother died,
the inheritance. . . the sale of the home place,
and outside the trees have turned their crimson and gold,
and the fields have gone copper
from the dying sun and brisk days.
In the house, I can hear the muffled honking
of the geese migrating overhead.
She is years in the past now—small,
the older sister always bossy,
criticizing her for her decisions.
She speaks of a few remembrances
of how her mother would want
them to get along
and how her mother loved these autumn days
and fall celebrations.
Life is passing—I want to tell her.

The sisters both know how they should handle this division,
and my friend wants to honor and please her dead mother,
but there is no peace in this time
of dealing with her sister,
so I talk to her of forgiveness,
and I see the want and the willingness in her to forgive--
as I look at her, then out the picture window
at the golden light sifting through the evergreens.
She tells me of wanting to forgive, yet not wanting,
and how broken she feels.

She gets in her car to head home,
while the beautiful orange sun sets across the horizon.
The glow on the neighbor’s field looks like Constable’s painting,
the round hay bales as big as the burden she is carrying.
As she pulls off, I stand outside and watch the sun go down,
the pageantry of the stars coming out,
and ponder how money robs people of love
and blinds them to beauty.