Emily would have turned eighteen this year.
Lily left a letter at her grave.
She did not show it to me.
I did not ask.
Some things belong between sisters.
Carl’s condition is currently stable.
The progression is slow.
He has books.
He has the garden.
And beside his chair is now a photograph of Lily.
She gave it to him herself.
In the picture, she is laughing.
Dad turns seventy-three this fall.
He is teaching Lily chess.
She says chess is basically geometry with more attitude.
Dad pretends to be offended.
The old shoebox is still sitting on one of my shelves.
I could hide it away.
I don’t.
I keep it somewhere I can see it.
Not because I want to reopen the wound.
Because I want to remember.
People are always more complicated than the version of them we carry in our minds.
Love can be real and still make terrible choices.
