be-strangers

Walking it out on the streets, segregated block to block, the flow of traffic is mundane at this hour; leaving me in a stifling muted bubble of contemplation.

…now I stink.

Around the corner, I pick up pace ready to climb the stairs just as all, suddenly isn’t Rosie…

Rosie is annoyed with her pursed pout and micro-shakes of disapproval. As court ordered, she’s here to distribute ownership of boxes. Her mother died; my mom died, to her, she was never mine, she was hers; this was her first chance to be-strange me.

“This belongs to you.”

“Thank you.”

“I no longer have time to spare on you. I don’t need or want anything having to do with you. She never told you, but I wish she had. If you never had come into our lives, I would have had a real sister. Her decision to abort is your fault.” “We have been live-in-strangers; soon, I want to solidify being strangers.” “You don’t deserve any of this, but I’m bound by law to give to the undeserving!”

. . .

If the blood hadn’t dried up in my wilting body, I would have turned and ran… to look for the pink scarf.