A Sibling Love Story: Poem for Corrie and Hayes

sticks in black water,

the lake where my grandparents lived looked 

black until you crept to the side and saw sticks

with splintered stems. 

i’ve heard love stories like that before.

the story where a couple chooses the

happiest moments for coffee mugs, 

pillows, and twentieth anniversary

albums. The wife treats the decision 

of the best font to use to describe 

herself kissing her husband on the 

cheek as wind blew away her beach 

hat as equal to a single mother 

deciding what to do for dinner 

with six dollars left in her purse.

sticks get caught between the 

lily pads as the dragonflies fly

over the black water, and the 

wife writes: “A fairytale for the

ages” after she was on the 

dance team in high school, 

before she became a first 

grade teacher, and he

graduated with a lacrosse 

scholarship before he started  

a career in home construction.

i’ve heard love stories like that.

Only fairytales were closer

cousins to zombie stories than

those with a happily ever after.

I’ve witnessed the love stories 

that inspired the images of 

lilies blooming on the pads,

and attracted hummingbirds

alongside the dragonflies.

I’ve felt the love story 

where the piano plays

the kind of dark tune 

that only comes after 

loss ripped the lily pads 

from the lake.

beside a boardwalk built 

after business directors and

city planners tore the old

pavilion down; 

a place where parents

warned their children 

not to go after the band

started playing live, 

teens pulled out

their cigarettes, and almost

all lied about their age.

Beside a boardwalk, after

the pavilion was torn down,

the children, my husband,

and I went to a place where

they made hamburgers as 

thick as five patties you get

from the drive thru line.

Bartenders served margaritas

in plastic cups smaller than

the standard red solo cup 

common at college parties.

Corrie and Hayes sat on

the high top stools between 

my husband and me.

“Mommy, that’s yuk,” Corrie

said of my margarita in the 

plastic cup as if it was 

a stick in black water. 

Honey wisps of waves, 

curls and frizz framed 

her face after they had 

fallen out of her pony

tail held up by a  royal

purple bow. She wore 

a turquoise jacket with 

a pink, turquoise, silver

outline of a star with a 

purple and blue skirt

that remind me of Main 

Street stores with lace and

San Francisco in the 1960s.

“Why can’t we swim in 

the ocean today?” asked my son,

Hayes. His blue eyes seemed like 

a mirror maze in a carnival, and

its creators never designed a map.

But below their surface, the answers

he knew. He asked out of the need

as children who cling to teddy 

bears or a favorite book at night

needed to know it’s there. 

“Hayes, it’s still winter,” Corrie said 

as she spoke with an employer’s 

voice upon finding an error in an 

employee’s work. “But we can swim

in the indoor pool later, right?” 

Hayes asked as he looked from me 

to his dad. In the words spoken 

from the mouths of parents in 

languages current and dead, 

he said, “We’ll see.”  

Half of a hotdog lay in Corrie’s

red basket. I said, “Finish your

hotdog.” She looked at me and

said in the ways we imagine 

fairies speak, “I don’t want the

bread, Mommy.” I scraped the

hotdog out of the bun and cut

it up. Three bites later, she 

rubbed her stomach, “I’m

so full.” My husband said,

“Corrie, you ate three bites.”

“But, my stomach really 

hurts,” she said. “Well,

we’re still eating,” I said.

On a stage reminiscent of a 

giant tree stump, a boy played

guitar. It took me back to a 

time when coffee houses first

opened up, and guitarists and

poets kept three different 

hacky sacks.  Corrie looked 

up at me with eyes made of 

all the colors stars design,

“Can Hayes and I dance?”

“Yes,” I said. The children

got up, and Corrie grabbed

her big brother’s hands in 

front of the stage. She started

to spin as if she was singing 

the nursery song, “Ashes, ashes

we all fall down.” She ran in a 

circle sideways, and spun Hayes

around. He said, “Whoa … “ 

and made a zoom and 

a spitting sound.

“Your children are beautiful,”

one customer said from a bar stool.

sometimes storms swipe leaves

in autumn before we see the 

full colors and makes sticks

of branches or running ink

on a paper left in the rain.

In the months after the 

ambulance doors swung

open and rushed Corrie 

into Levine, Hayes sits on 

a cement bench in the cemetery 

not far from her grave staring at the sunset,

and the orange and yellow flowers.

By Rebecca T. Dickinson. Copyright R.T. Dickinson 2020.