Losing a sibling is the moment the tornado sweeps through your home.
The heart braces itself, knees crumble to the floor and you find
yourself standing on the stairway landing wondering when the roof
came off.
My first love was Denny. A girl like you can’t be with a guy like me.
He held my hand. When he kissed me it was innocent. No tongue.
Just the breath of him inhaled by me like the curling smoke
burning off the end of my cigarette.
When my sister died the dreams came on hauntingly quick.
The image of my first dog being brutally murdered tortured
me until I came to realize who held the ax.
It was me.
I met the love of my life when I was twenty-three. Blond hair,
blue eyes, tall, I shivered when he smiled at me. He bought me
a yellow shirt. I bought him a pizza. Six months later he bought
me a broken heart in the form of a letter.
They say there are five stages to grief. But no one tells you
about the euphoria. Impressed with my ability to cope. My lack
of tear rimmed eyes. I strut around like my soul’s heart has been
covered in an iron casing.
Two or maybe twelve days later, my mind cracks, like the mirror
you can’t bear to look at anymore. The reflected image of your sister’s
face staring back at you, judging you, haunting you. The eyes
that stare back are hers and not yours.
Four years later, my mind breaks. My home, my car, my
career all become a fairy tale that the princess I was no longer
identifies. I reread a poem that my sister wrote. Leave
a light on for me and I find my way home.
