The sunset still glows like
the color of my mother's maternity pajamas:
a baby-pink, shimmery fabric that was
loose fitting and easy to cling to.
Long ago, when she donned the outfit nightly,
I was so young that I only faintly
recall the repetition today.

Then
I did not know
to resent the bump which she so often caressed,
wearing an expression that I
vaguely recognized from the many times

I had gazed up at her face from a
position of being cradled in her arms.
Perhaps if I had never learned to
press my hand against her warm skin and
wonder what would come of the swelling
nestled between her hips and her ribs,
I would have not glimpsed in the
squalling, ruddy face of my younger sister
a kindred spirit. When her hair was
shorter and fuzzier than my
favorite stuffed animal,

and when she screamed and sobbed while I
was attempting to sleep, or to draw, or
to watch Scooby Doo,

and when she drooled on my blankie,

I still soured with resentment and wished
that she would not do such things, but
I remembered that we shared the most
important thing – my mother's embraces
and kisses and smiles – and so, I never
once willed her away completely.