We were in the kitchen cooking, laughing. I started to tell a story about my dad, and so I began, “My dad says.” I stopped short. I looked her in the eye to see if there was pain there. He is her dad, too. And sometimes, because we don’t have the same mom, and because I only was with her on the weekends growing up, and because there are 17 years between us, sometimes I forget that we have the same dad, that we have half the same blood flowing through our veins, that we share half the same ancestors haunting us through our cheekbones and flat feet and uncanny sense of direction.
“I’m sorry. I meant to say just ‘Dad says,’” I told her, meaning it.
“It’s okay,” Skyann said. “I think I’ve done the same thing.” My younger half-sister was living with me for 12 weeks while she completed a graduate internship in the city where I live.
“I was just talking to you like I would a friend and sometimes I forget we’re sisters,” I said, trying to understand how I would revert to the habit of saying “my dad” after all these years. “We are sisters AND friends, now.”
“You’re right,” she said. Turning back to the stove, I smiled. We’ve come a long way.
:: CONTINUE ::
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