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  • What was taken from us in our youth where we lost the ability to speak the same language?

    I have considered this for many years. Chalking it up to our opposing beliefs on politics and religion, our conflicting personalities and diverging life paths. Sometimes, it is the many years between your birth and the attempts it took before our mother conceived again. Other times, it is a young man with a rose in his mouth that would become our step-father.
    There are so few things I know about my sister. I know she is short, and has eyes like a cat. She has our mother’s nose, and our father’s good teeth. She draws red poppies so life-like they could grow off the page.
    My earliest memory of her, in our backyard, picking raspberries from the cane and eating them out of our hands. Our arms torn, as we reached for the biggest berries at the center, together. And then, there is nothing for years, except for the faint memory of her walking a horse into a stable and blowing out candles on Halloween.
    For a small while, after moving to the ocean, we were better at being sisters. I remember our trips to the Cape, walking along the dunes, scrambling over wet rock. She would hold my hand wherever we went. I felt accounted for, even in the devouring silence. I would braid her hair on the beach, and she would draw my portrait on the car rides home.
    And then, for a second time, sisterhood receded. Exposing larger tempers, and more time apart. I would try to stay awake on nights she was out passed curfew, hoping to crawl into bed with a sister too tired to argue.
    Now, I think about William and Lucy. How they wait for her to tuck them into bed each night. How i’ve watched her hold their hands, like she held mine. There is a joy that consumes us when we are all together. Perhaps it is possible, that in her motherhood, we may begin again as sisters.
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