She is the first I protected, the first who I loved, the first who rejected me.
I woke her up each morning and I knocked on her door every night to see if there was a way inside.
There was a wall between us and I was listening from inside of it. Slowly. Steadily. Unwavering.
Fifty some odd years later, here I am.
Loving you from here.
The walls you erected were yours to build and although I sometimes wonder and sit and wait, I know that they are yours. They are strong. Too strong for me to peer through.
I see you down the street laughing when a young person has clothes on that you might disapprove of. And I shake. And pray and love her along the way.
I see you when my hair falls a certain way and for a moment I don’t know where I am.
I see you laughing at me and even though it hurts, I see you. Hurting.
I see my neighbor, in the hospital, donating her bone marrow to her sister, the only perfect match in her large Italian family. I see the family. Watching. Waiting. Praying. Unwavering. In their love. In their presence. In their hope. In their definition of family.
I see myself in them, alone, in them, knowing I am in isolation, behind a wall, in my donation. Giving something that could never be given me. But knowing myself. Always knowing where it comes from. Always knowing where it is going.
This.
*
I don’t know where you are in the world any longer. You’ve shown me that you no longer wish for me to know.
But the borders around my heart are made of a great tapestry. Of grace. Of gentleness. And of untamed definitions of a word given to me at birth. I hold it in my heart as mantra. As prayer.
Sister. Sister. (I am) My sister.
Tap softly.
June 25, 2022
Jill Bacharach
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