One View of Julie

This is a poem I am working on about my sister. 

She was a beautiful child

Irish colors of copper and green

a face you always remembered as dimpled

though it wasn't 

an upturned nose

delicate

We loved dolls, Julie and I

hers blonde, mine, dark,

Snow White, Rose Red,

She the beauty, me the brains

Then came the injections

blood sugar tests

syringes in the bathroom

clearing of sweet things from the cupboards.

A shift happened.

Dad, the doctor; Mom, the nurse.

the glazed-over eyes and slurred words

sweating, shaking, 

foretold trouble

we quickly got orange juice or candy

and watched her slowly return

like an image coming back into focus

and then the relief that it was over

but she was disobedient

and it would come again

and she pulled out her hair

growing back in a little crown

my mother's mouth a thin, straight line

as she cut long strokes with scissors

trying to make it right

but it wasn't

i don't remember 

her looks got her boys

her mouth, attention

Irreverent, funny, drunk

Julie didn't give a rat's ass, it seemed.

A trail behind her of jobs

told us to keep our advice

told us to fuck off

she had married boyfriends she met at church

she had medical bills 

because the diabetes was taking its toll

and she had to run faster.

This disease makes your little veins burst

and your feet go numb

and your eyes go to hell

and your bones get brittle

and your nerves don't tell you when you broke your ankle

until your eyes insist that the angle is wrong

lying there on the kitchen floor.

Your body races toward old age.

She had a heart attack.

Near the end, Thanksgiving

She traveled here with Dad,

He the doctor, she the patient,

On the ride up, already, Julie zones out

(stubbornly refuses breakfast once again)

He hauls her into the restaurant

the waiter calls 911

"it's ok, I am a doctor, give me some orange juice"

My old dad dealing for the millionth time with Julie

It happens again at midnight

I hear her screaminG: 

DADDY, DADDY

in an unholy voice

a cat howl

a ghost howl

so loud

my feet lead me to her

she is drenched in sweat

Dad looks weary in his pajamas

we wait for the orange juice to work

In my terror I yell at her with all the love

         i can muster

and I hold her and rock her

I hear her voice in my shirt:

"I don't want to die"

Nothing we could think of could stop these things from happening.

Three months later

My dad knew she was gone before he got there.

Only the cats greeted him, skittish, hiding.

I got the call.

I remember, I remember 

Her old boyfriend was in the doorway

at the funeral

people from church

all of us sickened, sickened

cleaning out her apartment

excavating the layers

witness to the life and the aftermath:

evidence of

hastily shoved furniture to fit the gurney

sheets dragged off the bed

medical supplies

dishes in the sink

surprising, sweet touches

an unfinished needlepoint:

"A Sister is a Friend Given to You by God."