Snapshot!
Previously...
Sisters   —   Family

I'm going through some old writings of mine, transferring them from Word Doc into Google Doc and making a plan to gradually include them on this blog over time. I'm reading through old poems, short stories, letters to friends and random thoughts that I decided to write about for whatever reason. There's some really bad stuff, some good stuff, and some stuff that is quite emotional.

The one I'm about to post completely caught me off guard upon reading it. I'd quite forgotten I'd ever written it and though it was written a long time ago the sentiment still applies to an alarmingly accurate degree. So yeah, I kinda cried when I read it. Don't worry, I don't expect you to cry, too. It's very personal and reflects not only my relationship with my sister but also the desperation in which I cling to the past. So whatever, it's therapy share-time.

Sister

In the soft light of the lamp I sit in my reading chair, its velvet brown body cradling the weight of my heavy mood, and I stare through the window in front of me, past the pane of glass that distorts my perception of myself and into the swirling dark night outside, losing my vision in its many folds of blackness and wonder.

My mind wanders up a rocky path, into the forest past old familiar trees with thick scarred bark, comforting me with their rickety branches and creaking mournful warnings. Breaking through the dark wooded night a house looms on its hill, alone in its wilderness yet warmed by its long-stayed guests within. It is home, was home, is home still if only in memory. A fleeting time in the lives of four, but a structure to bind them for the rest of their time lived. A now imaginary wonderland that I keep tucked deep inside my pocket, fondling its warmth with my cold fingers, running my mind over its familiar curves and crevasses.

Here I am, visiting again, and you’re there, you’re always there, with your kindness and your light and your easy laugh that moves me forward. And we play, you and I, with our games and our books and our bikes and our toys. And we’re close friends, and we’re distant strangers, and we make one another smile, and we make each other cry, and we go on great adventures together both large and small. We are sisters, partners in childhood, linked by family, and by blood.

I have a photograph of you on a shelf near my reading chair. The picture is small and quiet, like you are. In it you’re holding a mask in front of your face. It’s a beautiful mask, made of clay and feathers and ribbon and beads. It is a cast of your face, so it’s you, but it isn’t. But I see you every time I look at this photograph. I see the mask that is you, but isn’t you, I see the girl behind the mask, but I don’t.

And as I sit here, reflecting back upon the time of our childhood, and staring at your photograph, I feel alone in my chair, a missing piece of two sisters adrift and distant and singularly spinning in the ever-moving currents of life and time.

Posted 7.29.2010 11:51:50 PM

Replies
Dad wrote:
I love you Heather Lamar..............
Posted 8/3/2010 7:17:04 PM
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