There's a photo, black and white,
rests upon Mother's bureau;
a girl with blond, straight bangs,
fair of skin. Used to think she was me.
But how could that be
as she was older
and I didn't recognize
the plaid, button-down shirt.
Today, blood transfusions would cure,
but she had only months to count.
Colored and drew pictures instead,
hand-drawn, cut-out paper dolls and clothes;
now cherished upon my wall.
Often ponder her wish of becoming nine;
so grown-up sounding, you see.
Yet it wasn't to be.
Eight was all she had
and blue eyes and a smile
within a frame
that still reminds me of me.
by Margaret Bednar, April 6, 2016
This is a work in progress... a draft poem of sure. I really look nothing like my sisters, or I think, my parents. The photo of my sister, Susan, always mesmerized me when I was young. She looked a lot like me - but no one spoke of her. I finally found out who she was when I was maybe... 8. I really don't know how old I was when I gathered the courage to ask - (there was something I picked up on - that we weren't to really talk about her, I guess) I just remember always being confused by the photo and shocked when they told me she was my sister. Come to find out, she couldn't wait to come home from the hospital and visit and see the "baby"... me.