Gone Again

by Minka Kent

I stare at the miniature bronze figure—wondering how a depiction of someone being gruesomely murdered thousands of years ago is supposed to make us feel safe, give us hope, and remind us that every hardship we experience will be worth it in the end.

My anxieties rotate on a never-ending carousel. For as long as I can remember, an unsettled sensation has resided in the pit of my stomach, though sometimes it takes up occupancy in my chest, and other times it loiters in my head. But it never leaves. It’s always there. Like background noise.

Mrs. Huntington is always complimenting my blue hydrangeas, and I swear I made her year when I finally confessed that the key to their vibrant sky-blue tone was putting pennies in the soil at the base of each plant.

Few things in this life are as sacred as sisterhood.

Sisterhood is a messy, beautiful, complex kaleidoscope of emotions.

They say no one will ever know you, love you, or drive you to madness quite like a sister will.

I’m used to being the wallpaper of the family anyway: rarely seen and seldom heard unless someone needs something.

It’s as if they don’t physically see the mess. They’re blind to it. It’s their superpower, I’m certain.