Idiots

You’re an idiot

That’s what I heard from my sister

In her criticisms on how I live

Not unfounded, I am aware.

Wistfully

Whimsically 

Foolishly some days, I wander

Painting and singing and making plans, any old day.

I know things she doesn’t seem to;

This idiocy

Is an escape from deep wounds

Stones balanced on my back 

Sorrow 

Unfixable histories put into medical terminologies again and again

Misfit ideals

Loss.

I know this, maybe she feels it in a different way:

Giving up her glibness

And her dancing dresses and even her Shiny shoes.

You’d think she were the elder the way she carries on.

Calling me up making sure I’ve remembered to replace my tires,

Staying up late checking over documents I never think about,

Getting me out of bed some days,

And writing appointments on calendars. Always.

She never wanders foolishly through life 

She stomps. 

I remember her differently and yet

Thank god one of us 

Is an idiot 

And the other is idiotic enough

To love an idiot.