I hold my hands on the table and look at them and think how, really, they have never belonged to me. I remember the way September moved through the storm that killed her, dancing between the tree trunks, laughing at the sky. She was alive; she was so alive then that she stole living from those around her. I was in the background of the memory, barely there, a slip of color, a shadow. And before, when we were young, there had never really been anyone but September. I was an appendage. I was September’s sister.
