Dead to Me

The other day, The Peanut and I were having a serious conversation about her dimples. “What are they for?” she wondered. “Why doesn’t anyone else in our family have them?”

“Your Aunt Jessie had dimples,” I told her.

Had. The word flew out of my mouth like a startled bird. The Peanut didn’t miss a beat, and was already chattering about another exciting topic: how JJ has a penis and she doesn’t.

But more than anything, I wanted to take that word back.

I’m sure my sister still has her sweet dimples. I’m sure her eyes are still the deep blue of pansies. It’s been years since I’ve seen her, but some things don’t change.

I like to think that if she called me tomorrow, it would be as if no time had passed. We’d still have that sisterly telepathy, that special bond I’ve never had with anyone but her. We’d marvel that we still share the same hairstyle and the same wardrobe, fashion choices made in parallel, independent of time or geography. She’d utter a well-worn phrase, and we’d both laugh until we choked.

I’m afraid I’m letting her go. Because that is what you eventually do, whether you want to or not, when someone you love is gone.