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I’m always thinking of my older sister, C, or I’m used to thinking of myself as always thinking of her. Somebody has to. But since going back to California last September, it makes me angry. Too angry. I can’t bear how angry it makes me.

It’s worse when we talk. There’s a script, which she wrote1 and which I can’t stray from if I want to communicate with her. But I’m not communicating with her anyway, because she’s not calling to share new information or to find out how I’m feeling. She’s calling to run the script, which I know well, but not perfectly—no one but she can know it perfectly—and emotional spontaneity isn’t easily tolerated. If she says, How are you feeling today, brother? and I say, I’m feeling kind of sad, she will absently respond, I’m glad you’re feeling better now, brother. The loose ends are tidied with rote and ruthless efficiency. Feeling over. Next subject.

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