~~Sun is leaking inside a ribbon at a time. A very thin ribbon. A transparent ribbon that can barely be measured unless one is aware of who I once was.
Sometimes I wonder myself. I mean, who am I without my sister, without those pieces of my childhood, without her blood running though my veins?
I am caught desperately between two worlds: The living and the dead.
Her past is my past. Her secrets are my secrets. Now I’m the only one who knows; the only one to carry her stories, her dreams, her indescribable beauty.
It’s been four months, three days, and five hours since my sister’s murder, since her ex-husband shot her three times in the head, since my universe became a dark, dim, diminished.
It’s been a lifetime. It’s been a helltime.
I still find it difficult to breathe, to dream a full dream, to read an entire book. Hell, I can’t even schedule my past due mammogram appointment.
I think, “Why should I give a damn about a potential lump when my sister is DEAD, DEAD, DEAD!”
But there are those rare moments, those exquisite moments when the sun falls upon my body at just the right angle, when she glistens like golden prayers across my face, like sprinkled promises, like flowing honey…
Whispering, “I am here. I am here.”
And quite suddenly, I feel like my old self again, the way I used to when my sister was standing by my side. I am new again, alive again. My sister’s shimmering pink lips pressed against my cheek as if she never left me. Skin on skin. Two souls twisted together like familiar roots.
The simple things bring sun.
For example, remembering how we’d grow old together with our home swarming with Siamese cats. How we discussed wearing tight leopard pants adorned with sexy high stilettos, deep red lipstick, and sitting on our quaint porch drinking wine and waving at the cute college boys at 93.
Our grey hair blowing crazily, wildly; our ribbons tangled simultaneously against the soft summer sun like silk.
–I’ll tell you how the sun rose a ribbon at a time. –Emily Dickinson