You had no right to be the first to die.
I was the older. You should not 
have rushed ahead of me.
You knew the days were counting down
when I called and you said,
 “I’m chilled, need my sweater,
 call you back.” And didn’t.
I waited two more empty days,
all the things I yearned to say,
now regrets that nibble at my nights.
In the end your daughter
held the phone against your ear
so I could tell you that I loved you
one last time. You murmured 
some sound meant perhaps for love
though I will never know
whether in your morphine haze
you even knew my voice.
Silence –
the final thing we share.


Anne Hosansky was a first-place winner in a New York Poetry Forum contest. Other poems have been  published in Mobius, Poetica, Nine Mile, Avocet and First Literary Review East.  Wearing her prose hat she’s the author of five books and dozens of short stories published internationally, as well as the blog

“Sisters” is dedicated to her late sister Sonia Boin.