January 1998 / Volume One / Issue One
Stacey R. Hall
NOTE: This poem is divided into 2 pages. Click the ">" at the end of this page to access the next.
Her hair is in
          a box,
along with other pieces of evidence
that she lived.
A cast
full of signatures from when she
broke her arm
Pictures, old toys.
I think I can remember
glimpses of piano playing & laughter,
But I make that up
from what people have told me.

They always say I am
like her.

I used to imagine that
she was me
That her spirit must have jumped
into my young body
when hers was destroyed.
I would search for clues
about her
Listen to her records,
try on her clothes
Sit mesmerized by a split second
of her voice
recorded on a cassette.

It is my sister who is like her:
Has the same nose,
which is also my Grandmother's nose.
Won the award in high school
that is given in Brenda's
My grandparents look through all of that.

Brenda lives
in the shadows of
grandma and grandpa's house.
She lives in the closets where
her things
are stored.
In the bed that was hers
In fragments of handwriting
on everyday notes,
put away like love lettters
On the day that
she died.