Your mother was always so nice to me
from the first time I met her; a party at your house.
Drunkenly, I spilled beer on her carpet
and followed her apologetically
for what seemed hours, days.
She laughingly assured me
it was no big deal.

Next I came for Sunday dinner.
So nervous
I dropped an ashtray on the roast
my first home-cooked meal in months.
Your mother consoled me
blaming it on her own clumsiness.

She adopted me
and I called her Ma.
When my cousin came to visit
she took her in, too.
Let her stay in your room
you stormed from the house
furious red-haired princess
usurped by your mother's kindness to strangers.
She knew you'd be back
and you knew she would take you.

I spent a happy California summer
with you and Ma and my new-found family :
Sister Katie, with her teenage crush on me
a younger, innocent version of you
without the make-up.
Little Margaret (Midge)
would sit on my lap while I read to her
or try to sit between us as we watched TV.
And even Shadow
German Sheperd, abused as a pup
secure in her house full of women.
Running away, tail between her legs
afraid of men
until after some time I gain her trust
and share her security in this loving home.

Girls don't go out with guys
that their mothers approve of, you told me one day.
But still I'd stop by your house
to vist my surrogate family
Shadow greeting me at the door, wagging
(relationships with dogs are always less complicated).
You, wrapped in a towel and flirting,
;more like a sister now
getting ready for a date.

When you'd gone Ma and I would sit in the kitchen
talking of your stubborn streak
and rebelliousness
and your new boyfriend
(the one you'll eventually marry
and shortly divorce)
the one Ma doesn't trust.
We'd talk about the future
and what is best for you.

I didn't cry right away
when I read your letter.
It took awhile for the truth to hit.
Sweet, young Katie, just got her learner's permit
Ma seated beside her
Midge in the back
A head-on collision, you wrote
now Midge lies in a hospital
barely alive
and we have both lost
a sister and a mother.

3/30/80 (revised 4/17/94)