when I was nine,
I wrote a pleading letter to my sister
who at seventeen, maybe eighteen,
had left our family
to live with her birth father.
I didn’t know what I was feeling
was abandonment.
I wanted to be her.
But like an elder sibling sometimes is,
she moved through the world
with a kind of flicker
elusive,
hard to predict,
often difficult to understand.
I remember drenching myself
in her elusiveness,
in the shape of a Benefit Cosmetics powder puff
the only thing in her room
I dared to take and use.
I don’t remember the contents of the letter,
or how my handwriting looked
if I wrote in cursive or print.
I only know
it was never answered
and never brought up.
sometimes
I wonder if that moment
created something strange
inside of me
like the need to be
light enough to lift
or strong enough to keep pulling
instead, I’m more like an ash-bound flame
hopeful for more wood
but content to be a soft glow
inside the pauses
between replies.
even at nine,
I had a way
of dressing up hope
to look like art.
today,
I wonder
about the letter.
was it neatly folded
and tucked into a drawer?
or thrown away
without a second thought?
either answer is okay.
(Daily Writing 035)
But in all seriousness, does anyone want to buy me this?
Thoughts?