I Never Told, Nina Bennett

though it pissed me off when you borrowed
my clothes, left them dirty, crumpled
on your closet floor. Never said
where I was going, lied so you wouldn’t
tag along. It was me who told Dad
you smoked. Not the pot,
just the Marlboros.
You and Lizzie took Mom’s car,
sneaked the spare key from her jewelry
box, cut school, drove to the beach.
I vacuumed sand for hours, screamed
at you until you slammed the bedroom door
on my hand, leaving a curved
scar on my ring finger. I had a
sloshed husband, two sons, no
money to attend your college
graduation. I never told you
I was proud, never ended
a phone call, love you, sis.
Mom described your bulletin board
plastered with pictures of my boys,
brought back a box with my high
school yearbook, Doors albums
lifted from my room, that fringed
suede vest I sewed in 1968.
At the bottom, every letter
I ever sent you, creased
and worn, last one still crisp,
unopened. Mom found it in your mailbox,
delivered three days after you died.