Lithograph: Miguel Martinez
But we are strangers, always. Two sisters, so close in age. Time separates like two wet leaves cling, dry, then snap away with the wind. What causes human partings? Does there need to be a cause? Like sleepwalkers holding hands, we slowly wander off to opposite lives. No need to look back or try to fathom what happened. Nothing at all. Once, a call to share with me her medical. I listen with empathy; apparently unable to offer the sympathy she needs. Once I post a letter_ loaded with spousal problems. She responds with feelings of disgust for a sister that is nothing but a “poor me” cry baby. Neither of us able to give what the other needs or wants. Time forms a lost, hurtful relationship. Strangers, we answer with numbness until the scab finally leaches off and leaves a clean, clear perfect skin beneath. But somewhere in that perfection, just beneath the skin; a bloody, mysterious half-forgotten longing.