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The holidays came and went. I don’t remember much about that year, except that it was one of the coldest on record. Many days I woke up shivering, my legs tucked tightly under the covers, my teeth chattering.
The following summer I decided to sell the house. The realtor said to scrub it down and make some improvements. Install hardwood floors, she said; replace the windows and doors, invest in a new bathroom. It would be worth it in the end, she said. Buyers eat up that stuff.
For some reason, the same day the bathroom was finished, I thought about the letter. Where had I put it? I couldn’t remember. I spent an entire afternoon on my hands and knees, sifting through boxes of old papers.
Had it been a dream? Suddenly, I wasn’t sure it had existed at all. I couldn’t remember the phone number or address. All I remembered was that it was from my sister, and that it was an apology, written in the holiday spirit. It couldn’t have meant much.
The realtor stopped in to see how the improvements were coming along and told me she had heard about my sister and was sorry.
I asked her what she meant. This confused her. It was a small town. She had a friend who had remained close with my brother-in-law.
When she didn’t say anything, I understood.
My sister wasn’t old. I’m not old. I imagine she knew she was sick and that was why she had written.
Anger is like a knife that cuts you in two, Ralph used to say.
When the realtor left, I sat down at the kitchen table and put my head in my hands.
I closed my eyes and tried to remember the letter, but I couldn’t. I had made the last of my sister disappear before she herself was gone. I tried harder to picture the ink, the words.
It was only noon.
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About Jennifer Bossert
