I Swear She's Singing

May 15, 2019

Cool blades of grass slip up between my toes. The breeze smells like seaweed, or that sweet lake smell that must just be the mix of dead fish and worms rotting under layers of black mud and algae. Somehow it’s pleasant. It knocks off a few more crimson leaves to join their fallen siblings scattered along the backyard, resting on the roof of the boathouse, tickling the tops of my feet. It’s too cold to be out here barefoot and the wind is chilly as it slips down my collar, but I don’t dare move to tighten the windbreaker around my shoulders. It would be noisy, and she hasn’t heard me yet. The sun is warm enough besides as it pours down slow like molten gold, and there’s enough swimming in my mind to distract me from my numbing feet.

I swear she’s singing something, or humming at least. I catch a clear tone every now and then over the wind, and I wonder if it’s one of the songs I wrote for her. I never knew if she liked those songs. I see a square-inch of knee through the tear in her jeans. Her chin rests on it, and both hands play with the dark braid she pulled over the shoulder of her charcoal hoodie. (I think it might be Dad’s hoodie.) Her other leg hangs off the ledge of the granite wall, dangling over the layer of green-yellow algae speckled with leaves. Her eyes… I can’t see her eyes. But I assume she’s watching the whitecaps dance on the lake.

I’ve been standing here for a few minutes now—feels like hours—not sure what to do. Should I just go ahead and call her name? She would be startled at first, then turn and smile. I’d see her eyes. She’d jump up and run to me, tackling me into the grass, laughing. Should I yell it? Speak it? Whisper it? Perhaps I should just clear my throat -- fake a cough.

Or should I wait for her to see me? I could just stand still, smile and do nothing. I’m good at that. My presence alone might be enough to have the desired effect.

Maybe I should plop down beside her. Would she let me sit and be? Would she contain the excitement long enough for us to have a moment of silence together? I’d brush the leaves into the lake and watch ripples dart from their floating center. I think we’ll both be too full for words anyway.

I could crouch down here in the grass, snapping up the stick at my feet and tossing twigs at her. The playful approach. She’s my sister after all. I’m allowed to be annoying, and I don’t need to impress her. But this is a big moment and it has to be perfect.

It’s been years, decades actually. But we’re young now. I had to grow up and die to get here. She’s been waiting my whole life for this. Now we’re young, forever young.

I found my mom in the house earlier today. She got here twenty-eight years ago. One of my brothers was with my grandpa, cleaning fish inside. Grandpa still smokes here. It can’t hurt him anymore. But my sister here before me—sitting on the wall, singing to the waves, surrounded with the red and gold of fallen leaves, wearing Dad’s sweatshirt—she’s been waiting eighty-three years.

I’ve never seen her before. She died before I was born. I don’t even know her eye color, but I’m about to. Oh God, I’m about to. But how do I start? I’m still standing in the grass behind her, racking my brain: how do I do this? How do I introduce myself when she already knows me? I’m frozen. Then I feel the lump slide heavy up my throat. Sniffles turn into sobs until I’m sitting in the grass beginning to cry. Her head turns slightly, and I know that she’s heard me. The singing stops and she lets her hair fall back down across her back. It’s about to happen, not how I planned it, but it might just be perfect.