AN ARBORIST COMES TO MY HOUSE AT 8AM

and I step outside braless
hair stuck to my face like a newborn baby –
wet with sleep, half formed in the morning light.
He speaks of the common emerald ash borer
how it’s taken the tree in the front yard –
a quiet invasion with green beetles hollowing out its heart.
I nod, pretending to know more than I do,
then ask, since he’s already here
if he’d take a look at the others still standing.
He flashes his red light over to the branches of the maple and I flinch
like she’s being inspected in a line-up.
I didn’t mean for this to feel so clinical.
He tells me she’s healthy
but to watch out for her unions.
		Her unions?
He flicks on the scarlet light again
and points to two branches intertwining.
Like sisters
who used to share the frame of a bunk bed 
but now sleep miles apart.
I think of her, my Joey.
How I’d hand her my baby blanket without thinking
– roots shifting to make space.
She’d sit on the floor in front of the couch
hand me her brush and hair ties automatically
wait for my fingers to work: my only reason for existing.
She screamed at me like a summer storm
when I didn’t let her watch
Final Destination with my friends
but forgot about it by the time we pulled out her sleeping bag
and let her lay with her head next to us.
I quit gymnastics so she wouldn’t walk home alone from school.
Now I’m in a group chat with her.
She threatens to fight those who wrong me. Tells me it's on sight.
Brings bananas to my house that are barely browned
and asks me to bend time to make muffins.
When we’re together I watch as our chins jet out
and heads throw back as we laugh in unison.
That’s secretly my favorite.
She tells me I’m wrong, like always. That my stories are made up
and she holds no records of our childhood.
Reminds me I’m older and aging —
as if wisdom doesn’t come with lines on your face.
They’re strong, he says.
Where they meet
they grow around each other –
learn to bend.
I nod again because I do know. 
I am an expert on unions, it turns out.
A robin sits on the curve of the maple’s arm, 
folding around the smaller –
muscle memory, not quite touching 
but close enough.

Artwork Courtesy of our featured Artist Hassan Zahreddine