I am good at this

It wasn't her face, no, and not her smile or her blonde bob. Not her collar bones.

I am good at this, I am.

And it wasn't her clothes, always soft, always mauve or rose, no. Not her clothes.

And I remember turning the knob and entering her closet,

packing away those soft things as poisons dripped into her body

and poisons voided from her body.

This is the first and last time I'll mention

that I stole some of those soft things, I am good at this.

A neon yellow v-neck, a striped something or other.

And it's not the turning of the knob or the neon theft, no,

those things did not salt my cheeks, my bed sheets this past

numb sunned Wednesday.

And it wasn't the pictures or prayers, not the remembers, no.

(I am good at this)

and she wasn't even the centerpiece in the picture, no,

the picture I saw this past ten-ton Wednesday

when I came home full of remember. I am good, I am good, I promise, I am good

at this,

and it wasn't the remembers, no, but I cried

because, her hands, don't you recall,

they were good? They were so good, soft,

in that picture where she was not centerpiece,

but just a piece,

her hands

were always thin, so white, so deserving of soft things (she was good at this).

I cried like everything else that cries,

salt-blotted eye-glasses, I should pull over,

but I kept driving on the wet, dark roads,

hands nothing like hers on the steering wheel,

gripping so hard,

because, her hands.

*

Today is the third anniversary of my sister Mandy's passing. Over the past week, there have been more reminders of her other than the daily thoughts and memories in my head. There are Facebook memories where her name pops up and it happens to be the day that my mother was released from the hospital after spinal surgery. Thanks to mindless scrolling, I came across a picture that was not of Mandy, but her hands were in it. She always had such enviable, beautiful hands. She could have been a hand model. She and I have no phenotypical similarities, so her hands were fine, white, creamy, thin, and soft. They didn't turn over stones, get pricked by thorns, or break out in poison ivy. They crocheted blankets, colored in adult coloring books.

I am good at grieving my dead sister. I can talk about her struggle, our struggle, and her passing. The lack of extreme closeness or commonality may have something to do with that. I still find myself making fun of her or critiquing her choices. I still find myself grateful that I am not like her. But I do love her and like any grieving human, there are times where the salt from my tears need to be cleaned off my glasses.

Today is the anniversary, but Wednesday was the day I saw the picture that led to the rest of the day weighing a dead ton on me. I came home from a 14 hour work day, didn't even greet my husband or dogs, went straight to bed, and cried. All because I saw those hands in that picture, displaced from the rest of her, knowing they were hers. Knowing that when I was a crying child, her hands pulled me close (she was almost ten years older). I'd feel her hands on my back as she told me to scream into her belly. I was often a sad child. I still am.

But today, I kept busy. I ironically said my last goodbye to my wrecked, beloved car. I went to the UPS store and when the clerk asked me what I was mailing, I said rocks. Are they worth $100 or more? she asked. No, I laughed. We took the Christmas tree down and I went for a five mile walk so to walk into the darkening day and seek the gorgeous textures and colors in this city that I cannot wait to leave behind. I finished a painting that is nothing but oblong circles and bleeding colors. I listened to a podcast featuring Terry Tempest Williams who discusses beauty in this broken world.