Brushing Teeth with My Sister after the Wake

at my kitchen sink, the bathroom upstairs clogged with family from out of town spending the night after the wake and the after—wake—cold beverages have been consumed and comfort food, leftovers bulging both the fridge and the mini-fridge. In our fifties, both half-asleep half-awake, we face each other. My sister's smile foams white down her chin at the end of a day on which no one has smiled. We laugh. We may never brush our teeth together again. No mirror down here to see our haggard faces. We rinse, we spit. As we were taught.