A Moment before the Aisle

I remember a Thanksgiving
Visiting, in the evening,
before children and ministry
changed things, not worse,
just different.
While you cooked the turkey
I spun CDs, memories of
twelve and thirteen rushing back
to greet us.
We snacked on chicken burritos
Coca-cola and cake with
white icing, while the turkey
was baking and the potatoes
boiling.
Later, too full, drunk on
green beans gravy corn
butterscotch schnapps in a
mug full of coffee,
I laid on the floor, laughing,
fireplace dancing in red
reflections on the mirrored wall.
How many years later?
You waited at the end
of the hall for me,
guarding
that I wouldn't be seen by the
man in the suit
waiting
to kiss me.
You signalled, a hand flicker,
and I moved forward, to stand
beside you.
"I don't consider you my best friend," you told me,
your face a contour-less map, no depths to interpret.
"I consider you my sister."
There was no time to reflect.
We went reeling headlong into
my future.
And I was glad.