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This writing was accepted for publication in the
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 “Drowning in the Darkness”
Down in the Dirt, v174 (the August 2020 Issue)



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Sister

Scott Brown

    Months carry time like old cars carry high school kids: more and faster than I wish. Last Spring, we sat next to a fountain that had crept into an Azalea bush. We drank bourbon and jazz and recited memories, watching one another through time’s veil like seeing a forgotten friend across a smokey bar room – sometimes not quite clearly.

    It is January now, and the Winter of another failed attempt at our relationship. Tomorrow, sleet-frosted blades of grass will crunch like corn flakes on my way to get the mail and the stirring wind will make the Willow leaves clink like porch chimes. Nature crawls, and much of what does move is underground and we are unaware.

    Stories are history that suggests music between the notes, a rhythm of shared time.
When Dad died, I wandered through rooms packed with ghosts that I hadn’t thought of in years – not really forgotten, just repainted on the blank canvass of an empty house. I couldn’t find you. There was an occasional tale, but no you in the daily refrain.

    We had Springs and Winters and my mind tripped into Summers and Falls: filled in the blanks with assumption or hope. But you have always been Spring – carnations and colored hair, or Winters - lonely walks to the mail box. Memories and moments. I dig through the closet for photographs and find last year’s blue flip-flops.

    Love and closeness are brother and sister who need not spend time together. Family is a thin, silver cord corroded by distance, lifestyle, competition, and winter. Spring brings the courageous and stubborn weed growing through the crack in the sidewalk with an occasional yellow blossom - and that is something.



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