I had a sister once.
She didn’t die. She just left and never came back.
The time she left before this last final time which has lasted twenty-eight years, she left for just six months. We differed about something, one of us made a remark on the phone, and then the phone went dead for the next six months, her in California and me in Wisconsin.
When the phone next rang, it was to tell me that her ex-husband had died in a car accident. For whatever reason, his yellow Mercedes had crashed into a tree one dark California night. She said his body was so mangled that they would have to wrap him in a sheet to bury him. It seemed an incredible thing for her to say, explosive, red and angry, with a tinge of blame.
I didn’t want to hear this bloody, torn detail about a man I’d…
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