I am sick of black. Once my color of choice, it now has too much meaning. I will wear white. Swaddle myself in kindness. I have nestled in her sweaters for too long. Tried on every dress. Worn her scarves as veils. Our coloring was different. Nothing really works. And it's not her clothing I am after. But it still holds her shape. Carries her scent. I am looking for the other side, but getting through to it eludes me. Everything has shifted. There is only here and now. But even then, even there, that other side will only be a memory. I sleep naked. When I awake, I find myself holding my sister's hand and setting off across an old and familiar city. Without clothes, we cover ourselves in grief.
In grief I discover myself, not her. It's a shock. I thought I would bathe myself in her image and emerge with her next to me.Instead, I only get a glimpse of her back in a dream. A peek. An occasional memory flooding the place. But it's me that I mainly see. Pale, worn. As if I have been in battle. Almost transparent. You could blow me over. Dwindling from grief's relentless teeth holding me in place.
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