Her Spots

The first thing I thought of was her elbow - probably the most impersonal body part. Right above the curve she has a beauty mark. And so do I. Gazing up her arm to the shoulder of the same side, there's another. And so have I. Up the neck to her face are more. She has some of our mother's freckles across her nose, but with our father's pigment and my glasses, it's hard to tell. She becomes herself in the nose. The crinkling when she's upset or caught in the middle of a laugh is like a bed sheet not yet smoothed out, unlike the valleys on mine.

When her nose wrinkles or her brows furrow, she gets the lightest of blushes on her face, as if any emotion demands attention. I've learned to anticipate the path the blush will crawl, which beauty mark it will touch depending on her mood. As if sensing it herself, she puts her hands on her chest or her cheek, leaving an imprint like the white sun over a rose sky. Yet sitting beside her on the couch, I know when she stands there won't be any indentation on the seat, as if rejecting her impact or permanence. The room will change, as life does, and so will she.

My Dearest Sister