Kristen never quite managed
to pull herself over the bar
Dad stuck between the trees—
the ones we used as goal posts.
She hung and swung and
kicked her legs with a grace
she thought she needed—
Mom so wanted a gymnast!
I used to climb and sit
on the limbs of that tree
that taught me of angles.
I watched as her arms
buckled and gave like
the curtsey of a ballerina.
On the day my limb snapped
Mom pushed her up where
momentum should carry her over—
tired of watching her fall.
As I flew past the bar
her arms bowed on the edge
and dropped staring over the yard—
how kind to curtsy my passing.
