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Memento Mori

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I have blue veins this year and you are my sister. We have different moms, but you never bring it up. I think that you are beautiful, but you say that I am an idiot.

We were born two years apart with thick curls and round eyes that sparkled like the shallow waters of the lake we used to go to every summer. I was premature and you were perfect—you were healthy. I remember my birth mother and how she cried the first year I survived. She does not know that I remember, but you did—you, the babe wrapped into warmth in the arms of a gracious woman that had quickly grown too afraid of letting you sleep.

Growing up, you said that 'the impossible is possible'. You said it when I told you about my memory of my mother and when that girl who lived across our street told you that girls could never swear. You loved insects inside glass jars, but you always kept them a little too long; you cried when they stopped moving, but I always told you that they were okay. "How are they 'okay'?"—"Nothing really dies!" You smiled, though I was sure you thought I was only trying to make you feel better. It was a smile comparable to one you wore quite proudly the day I started secondary schooling. You told your friends that we were a pair. When I think about it, you have never been so bold.

I never questioned you when your smiles got lazier, or when your voice lost its youth. You would talk about a "Jeff" or a "Daniel" one week, and then completely forget they existed the next. I always wondered if you possessed any carnal knowledge of them and they, you, but our bond was another strand on a spider's web—a spider you, again, kept inside your lucky jar a little longer than you should have. You did not cry though. "I fed it and everything… Fuck."—"There's more outside…" You were suffocating, like those insects, but I could not help you.

A part of me felt selfish for not doing so, but it is the way of life…and I can never go against our nature.

The first morning I saw you at the lake, I knew you were searching for me…me. In your eyes I saw reflections of soft waves and smooth rocks, though dull with a deep knowing pain, still held memories of a grinning child with two missing front teeth. I called for you, but your gaze was almost empty and your faint smile never reached your cheeks. "Let's go swimming."—"It's too cold." You told me that I was too careful, then got angry when I said I would probably drown.

The day after, you played sick to stay home. We were separated for hours…I, in the midst of another lesson about understanding Geometry, a simplified form of what Life has used before you were even born fifteen years ago, and you, sleeping as if you were still a healthy baby… I would call it practice, but I have never "had a dream" in all this time.

And it is Time that I find ultimately humorous and "godly". It was when you were a fetus, when you were an idea, when the concept of you had never crossed an educated mind… Time is eternity and a second, and an hour and a week, but Time is also human. You are human.

I found you near the lake with your wrists shivering from their wounds. They felt warm, like the blood running onto your favorite teal sundress. You looked so familiar again, so beautiful that I cried. When you looked at me, you did so with a flash of rage that faded into love. Love. You smiled and I was reminded of you…you smiling at me in the school, you smiling when I caught you another spider—when we were smaller and you said "Fuck you", when you invited a "Jeff" to your fourteenth birthday party, and when you saw your mom.

You said, "I think…I think I'm dying. Hah…"

I told you, "You're okay…because no one really dies."

You look at me like I have you inside a jar and you are fading away in this flesh. "I'm s…so cold…"

"Me too."

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