You told them you read this blog. I hope you do.
Remember when the world was big and your dad was my dad too? At least I felt he was. On the Fourth of July he'd sit and shuck clams and we'd eat them without fear, like boys. Your mom took care of everything, her flip flops constantly thwacking, the slider door opened and shut, opened and shut.
At night the fireworks were spectacular and illegal. Once he called out to me, your dad. He said,
"Sue! Come ovah here!"
He let me (forced me? coaxed me?) light a firework that illuminated the night sky like millions of fireflies.
"You did good," he said.
And you were always there in back of me. My secret sister. The keeper of my dreams. No one knew what you knew.
Someday maybe you'll tell me what happened. Let me know when and how and where it fell apart. When we became people who meet and smile and dismiss one another at the grocery store.
Years and years ago we planned our lives. We'd marry working class boys and live next door to each other.
Well, look at us! Look who we married and look where we live.
I'd give anything to go back and say..."Oh, and we have to remember to keep speaking to one another, okay? We have to stay sisters."
Maybe that's the problem with casting futures. You leave out all the important things.