My sister Cape was only two years older than me except for the summer months we were one thin year apart.
And there it is the first sentence which I write similar versions of, maybe identical, once in a while almost involuntarily and then I leave it, I abandon it, for the story of my sister Catherine, Cape I called her, will not easily be told.
But maybe this time will be different, the odds can just fuck off, and they can take with them the old saying about expecting different results being the definition of insanity.
Do you think optimism is a crutch?
Her body always like that of a dancer she knew how to train your eyes, she cat walked, every time I try to write her story it is in a serif font, italic, elegant ascenders and lasting descenders punctuation need not apply.
I wonder if she still cooks wherever she is and if she has children like the pages of a picture-book and how she might serve them as she did me her soft sweet creations, I don’t know if there’s a word for them but clouds, they fell into no category, wonderful little enigmas I can taste now and feel, the way she’d watch my face, her own echoing my joy like a mirror and even when she was sitting right there, across from me, I longed for her, more more more I could never get enough, none of us could.
And I think that’s why she left we wanted too much.
We tried to hold on to her, my parents hired a psychiatrist to learn how to talk to her, how to get her back home after her first fledgling flights, and I heard through electric walls they even considered moving us back to the sticks.
I alone understood Cape, and if the odds have room for another saying they can take with them the one about if you love something set it free, because it’s not finite, there’s no deadline, she’ll be back, Cape, I just know it.
