she's playing guitar again. my sister, that is. i remember south avenue. banging on her bedroom door. yelling at her to turn her music down. annoyed by every cord that seeped through our shared wall. her voice belting lyrics through open windows into summer streets. she is playing again, after years of silence. her hands too shaky to hold notes. too self-conscious to sing. indian-style on the couch, she plays me a song. picking out the melody. her long fingers move over taught metal. her voice arcs up and dips. melancholy but beautiful.
i try to focus on these moments. excited when i can look at her and see my little sister and not the manifestation of the disease. i am too short with her. easily annoyed. but i am trying really hard to curb my frustrations. enjoy this time for what it is. it is hard. i have to put everything else aside. i don't feel like i can have stuff when i am here. there is no room for anything else. her disease is too big. i would be too much of a burden. so i stuff it down. or write on my own. but moments of silence and peace are rare when i am with her. i am grateful she is sleeping in. worn down from defending myself. explaining that i didn't move her things. she blames me when they disappear. should i lie and agree? if it wasn't me...then it must have been the "people" who break into her house and spy on her. she has covered up the camera on her computer. and the remote sensor on the television. little bits of post it notes doting the appliances and fixtures.
how do i tell her that the sleeping arrangements are less than acceptable? without insulting her. is there a diplomatic way to explain that it isn't really a choice when the options are either sharing a bed that smells like cigarettes or taking the couch that reeks of cat piss?
i get to go home soon. to a place i love. this is her life. and it breaks my heart. but i can't help wanting to run away. so i go for a walk. cool breeze. good tunes. breathe.
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