Sister -- a Poem In 2 Parts

I. End-Cut Prime Rib of Beef, Crab-cake, Lobster Tail, Sea Scallops. I feel — no — need to, eat those foods you asked I get you. So I scour the internet for upscale Manhattan restaurant menus, listing, first and foremost, roast prime rib of beef, confident, if I find that, the seafood items will appear on at least one of them, also. It’s the Post House, on East 63rd Street, that has everything. And, on this day, the 1st anniversary of your death, I’m eating the foods you craved, yet, I do not savor a morsel. But not to worry, Renee, for next year, same date, I’ll try again, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll find it easier to enjoy what you surely would have, if only I’d realized there was no time left. No time left, as I held your hand and watched American Idol. while you morphed into what- ever it is one becomes at death. II. I muse if Robert Frost had taken the other road, would he have moved to England, where his poetry was a hit from the get-go; would he have remained, the constant farmer, or teacher, or journalist he been, rather than the bard who'd crafted the simplest words into mysterious, memorable poems; and the father who couldn’t prevent his children’s deaths; not the husband who couldn’t keep his wife from sinking deep into depression. Renee, every day, since your death, I think about what I could’ve done and should not have done as your sister, your twin. How I’d sat on my laurels and let you navigate on your own, with me never wholeheartedly trying to steer away from conflict with you. Me, who found it too hard staying involved in that life of yours. Truth be told, if I'd seen two diverging roads to choose from, way back when — neither the worse for wear, I would’ve sought you out — asked you which one you’d take if you were me, and surely I’d have taken the other.