I twirl the plastic ring from the milk
Around the surface of the table.
The day is dark with fog through the picture window
My reflection is your ghost.
I used to be a mirror
The strands of our pale hair entwined
The fibers of our sweater sleeves
Felted themselves into tiny balls as we walked.
I spoke too much.
You, not enough.
Unless I count the dissenting voice in your head.
I heard it in the downturn of your mouth.
I dug a hole, built a burrow around us.
And like the mole in Thumbelina trapped the swallow,
I wanted to hide you in the dark.
You wanted the sky. You wanted escape.
So I wait for the small ring to move.
Just a small sign from you, my reflection.
My swallow. My sister.
Fiction today. I've been a bit obsessed with the novel Her Fearful Symmertry by Audrey Niffenegger. Here, I let one sister [character] mourn a change in circumstances.