Secret Underskin of Families

In the waiting room I traced mazes with finger tips,
    watched invisible ink of skin disappear as it touched the page.
We didn’t discuss why we were there as sister was whisked away
    to a place we could only visit.
I opted for brother’s floor instead of my own twin bed with no counterpart.

Sterile smells of coffee and cotton balls, bold yet filled with nothing
    followed lightly behind us those years.
Later, letters in crayon and my own small hand would emerge around dinner
    tables for giggles.
    But there is nothing funny about writing to the lost.