for my big sister
Poetry by Brenna Dean
I choked back a sob as I tapped my bridesmaid’s speech
onto my phone’s screen, caught between each redefined
notion of our family, who nurtures the estrangement gene.
But you are a constant, big sister.
You were Mom when Mom began a part-time job,
still recovering from Dad’s first lay-off.
You, queen of the gourmet scrambled egg
after your first time using the stove, soon to conquer the crepe.
And you, chronically late, scared to get a driver’s license
before 21, just like I was. You, Tumblr kid
who introduced me to all my favorite TV, a guide
to Hot Topic’s t-shirt wall when I was too shy to go alone. You,
playing Chuzzle on an overheated PC after school, a game
now downloaded onto your phone. You, 13,
the sarcasm that I began to use as a
defense, my mechanism, and you Nirvana, Foos,
you Blink-182 that soundtracked every sun-
lit road trip back when we had a family to drive to.
You were fearless –
you surprising – when once you brought a
boy home, and he left me Swedish fish
and a note on my 11th birthday. He, a weathered brown Bronco
picking us up from work and school,
and he, lessons on the alto sax when I was 12,
dislocated pinkies during his rugby match,
he, watching Constantine and A Knight’s Tale
with Mom and me, on break from law school.
He, at my piano recital in the chair where Grandma used to sit,
the big brother I thought I’d missed – my brother
even before he gave his vows to you,
big sis.
