Saint Therese Expires

St. Therese knows the time is near. She hears my half-flung prayer for you as you leave for the day. The house feels worried, cabinets quivering and faucets wailing. I sit at the kitchen table and open my palm where I keep my pieces of you -- your mother's pearls, your sister's smile, and the curve of your jaw in the dark. St. Therese reaches one hand to me and we meet as absent sisters. Our joined hands become an open coffin and St. Therese expires as steam on a winter night. Suddenly alone at our table, I sprout leaves among our dirty dishes and you stride back through the empty doorway. We kneel before the bed and three sets of lips move in unison.