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Stars pass through the sky. Minutes pass through the night. Flowers bloom and die. You can try to hold fast to the people you love, but everything changes.
How could she possibly, my beautiful, brilliant, talented sister?
felt like an owl pellet in comparison: small, undistinguished, with mud-colored hair and eyes.
“We can have the best intentions,” she said. “And still hurt the person we love so much.
“I thought I was helping her, giving her what she wanted, the chance to be in our beloved garden and see the moon. She seemed fine one moment—but she was dying the next.”
“I know one thing, Tilly. When it comes to sisters, there’s no such thing as broken.”
“‘I’m so lucky to have spent my life with a sister like you.’”
Our mother used to say, ‘You’ll have many friends in life, but only one sister.’
Tilly looks up to you, just like the moon rising in the east, every single night, even behind the clouds. She counts on you being there.”
“I wasn’t sure we’d ever be together again.” We’re sisters, I said, and that really did say it all.
This was how we knew we were sisters—we had a language for it, deeper than words, that no one else, even our parents, could know. We spoke it both awake and in our dreams, and it told the story of us.
We had found our ways back to each other, to the place we’d started from the day she was born, the day she became my little sister.
