He cleans the house like a storm,
removing any residue of mine that catches his eye.
My books are piled high,
then higher,
and then are taken out of sight.

Crumpled receipts that litter the counter,
evidence that I took to the streets,
are tossed to the wind.

Empty coffee mugs,
the containers of my nourishment,
are hurled to the sink to await their soapy fate.

All the while he works, his low murmur resonates:
“Why do we need this?”
“Why is this still here?”

I sense that soon his eyes
will land on me,
and he will not see his sister,
but a memory to be thrown away.