Sister on the Way

I remember, shortly before my fifth birthday,
Driving through the heartland of America in winter.
My Dad, recently unemployed, had taken a temporary job,
And we had stopped for Christmas at my Grandparents’
Before driving on. But the drive was not smooth.

We pulled over and my Mom did something out the door.
And again.
The third time, my Dad said, “I think that confirms it.”
Morning sickness had come, and my sister was on the way.

Why do I have a clear memory of the frozen corn stalks
And the thin layer of ice over all, that single impression,
When I have no clear memory of my sister for months and years?
Are the memories of pacifier and giggles actually my own,
Or simply overlays of photos in the albums?

My sister was younger enough that our worlds didn’t mesh
Comfortably until she was in college.

They mesh comfortably now.
I am thankful.