Kathy

She doesn’t remember the last thing she said to her sister before the cancer swallowed her whole. Doesn’t remember if it was cruel, or kind, or just silence.

But she remembers Dana’s face at the funeral. Blank. Barely breathing.

Now, Kathy sits on the back porch, the bottle tucked between her legs. She watches Dana hang clothes on the line, lips pressed tight, shoulders thinner than they should be.

“I didn’t ask for her,” she mutters to no one.

Her youth had faded, just like her memories.  Once she'd been beautiful, desired.  That all sank into the bottom of a bottle.

She hadn’t known what to do with a girl like Dana.
Too quiet. Too watchful. Always tiptoeing around like the floor might collapse.

Kathy had been angry. Not at the girl—but at the years, at the silence, at her own shaking hands that couldn’t stop pouring one more drink.

Now the house is quiet again.
Too quiet.

She whispers her sister’s name like it’s a secret she was never meant to keep.