The Sister

by Louise Jensen

my skirt to preserve what little dignity I had remaining, and scrambled around retrieving my lunch. My yoghurt spoon was missing, but I didn’t care. The lid of my new

cake. ‘Well, this is the canteen. “Hardly the bleedin’ Ritz,” as Mum would say, but you know…’ I nodded, even though

‘Grief isn’t an illness though, is it?’ Anna’s face crumples. ‘It’s not as if you get better, like you do with chickenpox.

‘Where

I'm pretty sure I've figured this out.

The breakfast table is heavy with preserves and accusations.

I sweep toast crumbs and guilt into my cupped hand.

Dear

Ok, I didn't quite have it figured out, but was close!

‘Think of ten nice things that have happened today,’

We sat on wooden benches designed to make bottoms as numb as hearts.