Sunny day. Park bench. Lemonade and Coffee. Siblings. Stories. Laughter. Truth.
“Imagine if we’d combined our forces when we were younger!”
“These stories aren’t for anyone else, especially not Mum.”
“Definitely not Mum!”
So much laughter. We were silly kids. So much bonding, even the perfect child was not so perfect.
Great stories. Remarkable tales. Living through each other and relating.
We’re very close siblings but we recall lives which mostly weren’t centred around each other. We all went off in different directions. When we get together, it’s just like we’re kids again. We go mad in the best possible way. We make each other laugh and smile. We’re there when no one else is. Faces, phone calls, emails and text messages.
Then the fear comes and I feel it for them. The sadness hits and I cannot escape it. We share each others’ joy but we cannot escape the other emotions.
That sister. The mental patient.
How many times have they had to feel my pain? How many suicide attempts? How many hospitalisations? How many failures? How many times have I made their hearts ache through the link that we share and the bond that surpasses our genes and ancestry?