To My Sister

If only the voices would stop

Photo by Author — My sister (1965)

You were a happy child. You had your mother’s beauty and a sunny disposition. You cared. In Africa, when your father went windsurfing and your sister cantered a fast horse on the beach, you carried a heavy bucket to the palm trees and watered each one. It was so hot, you said, and the trees were thirsty. It was always a heavy burden on you that the world cared so little.