I am standing in the spare room at my grandmother's house. There are three dried Sunday palms folded into lanyards, tucked behind mirrors and picture frames. On the dresser there is a tiny copy of Millet's painting "The Angelus" depicting two farmers, a woman and man, with heads bent in prayer over the ground, a half filled basket and empty potato sacks evidencing their meager yield. Across the bed there are quilts that I have wrapped myself in since I was a little girl. I remember that there is a photograph of my sister and I sleeping here, covered by these quilts, after I crawled into bed with her one morning when we were children.
I sit on the bed and put my hair into two thick braids. My hair is longer then it has been in 10 years because I haven’t touched it since I cut it off (all of it) when my sister died. I’ve found it to be the most tangible way to measure my time without her. 2 years, 4 months. 16 inches, 2 braids. One friend contends that I am turning my body into a "living shrine" for my sister. Maybe. Maybe I'm just accentuating the fact that it already is.
Because it is one thing to say that "my sister died" but when I join it with the details, "she was my twin," "my identical twin," "she killed herself," "her body was missing for three days in an August heat," the truth transforms into something so terrible that peace becomes just a quaint and silly idea. Tears well up in the eyes of the unfortunate person who asks me if I have any siblings.
Today is Christmas and my sister is gone. When my family manages to talk about her, our words feel like dead air pumped into a very sad balloon that floats away on its solitary trail. Mostly we do not talk about her and I wonder if anyone else notices this omission. Then I think about the sad balloon and wonder if it matters.
The last real conversation I had about my sister was with an acquaintance. Actually, this is probably true for the last five conversations I've had about my sister. Why is this? How has she transformed from an interesting, beautiful human being into a discussion topic for casual conversation?
Nature protests. I have often been wakened by wind that is my sister's indiscernible whisper to me. Inside my mind I reply and scream her name but honestly I can barely say her name out loud when I am alone.
Just a few days ago I was leaving an overlook by Lake Michigan and thinking about prayer. Over the years, I have often thought about the significance of saying things out loud. Does it mean less if we are silent with our hands and eyes and wills folded over a barren ground like the solemn farmers in Millet's painting? As I walked down the dune, I was surprised to find an answer streamed into my mind: "Its okay to pray silently if what you have to say is quiet." I turned and spoke a soft "Goodbye" to Lake and continued my descent.
