Pot Pies. Waffles with Jam.

She never quite understood her name, while she secretly loved its sound.

Speculated our mother had a dream in which the syllables fell from a basket

in a scrabble to compose the odd, monkey moniker that stuck. Only sister

joined by blood, first friend or pest, and sharer of stories, witness to bats

swooping night's swimming pool. Always there. With her

loose baby teeth,

grinning. Hair akimbo as I tugged and tucked my cowlicks

under hard, spiky headbands. Trick or treat tag-along,

sucking on Sweet Tarts,

three TV shows minimum in the afternoon

as dusk sunk Dark Shadows. Gilligan's Island.

Bewitched.

Pot pies for dinner or sometimes even the coveted poor girls'

waffles, soft, with red, seed-pitted jam.

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