There is nothing like a sister

When she's here I can pretend like I am
still seven-and-a-quarter years old,
pressing my fingers in between earth worms
and learning to trace the sun
across the sky.

Our hair's darker now.

We admit to things we probably should keep quiet,
but it's hard to keep those things from the memory
of a whisper across the space
between our beds,
after the world had gone to sleep.

And I don't want to keep secrets,
tucked away, anymore.
For once.
It's been so long since I was allowed
to remember, and in the remembering,
to finally, let it go.