The void called to her for as long as she could remember.
Bookends of each day found her
at the kitchen sink; subordinate,
standing to the left of Big Sister.
She needed a stool to reach the drainer.
Big Sister washed and rinsed,
she dried with a white cotton towel,
worn soft from the scalloped edges of dime-store dishes,
their pink roses in perpetual bloom.
Sometimes, she would say, ‘slow down Big Sister’,
her small hands not as fast, not as sure
as she stretched on tiptoe to reach the shelves
of the tall white cupboard.
In the morning,
they looked through the window in silence,
watching the light shift, the world come alive.
In the evening,
as the murky water swirled down the drain,
they looked up from their labor
into the black void and whispered,