Her Birthday

The photo above would have been in the late 1970s on Long Island. My sister Marlene was between hospitalizations then, and she embraced life fully, as she always did, newly in love with Henry, whom she married a few years later. The German Shepherd was their much-loved King, a kind and noble companion.

I think of Marlene pretty much every day, but especially today, which is her birthday. She would have been 66, and she’s been gone for more than twenty years, a fact that still hurts with a visceral kind of punch that never abates.

I can hardly believe that she was in my life once, and I could have called her any time. Did I ever stop and contemplate the sheer miracle of that?

There are things my sister understood that no one else did, things we could talk about in dismay, but things we could laugh about too–and oh, how we laughed!

Our history was a painful one with a specific component of anger and regret, but I think we got through that part, and in a way, it has made her memory even more intimate and indelible. I almost feel that she is a part of me.

And I hope I can honor her spirit, for words cannot do justice to her courage and magnificence. I miss her so much.

I talked to Henry today, and we missed her together.

She was a singer, among other things, and there’s a mention of her voice in this poem I shared a with him. I wrote it decades ago, after visiting them in their home in Florida:

MARLENE’S HOUSE

Panes of color tint the glare

of outside light,

and there is refuge there,

a softness that feels calm and right.

Porcelain blues and powder pinks,

family photos in little frames,

luminous fish in a liquid world

that holds no anger, sorrow, or blame.

Now Henry strokes his lady's hair

as quiet day turns into night,

and no one knows what these two share,