Blood Ocean

“Never let an angry sister brush your hair.” – Unknown

Before I knew who I was, I knew them. From the beginning, they were my stones, my familiar touch. As much as we grew together, we grew apart. And now, the years have drifted away, oftentimes ripped from our death grip, leaving us empty and whole. We ran from place to place, man to man, looking for something or someone to make us full. Always searching for someone who understood, someone who would accept us for the tragic messes we were. All the while side stepping one another, looking past one another.

Me and my sisters 1974

No one will ever know me, the way they know me. Their acceptance or rejection comes with no pretense. It comes with no hidden agendas or selfish motivations. We are connected to one another as much as we are connected to this earth. Whether serving as a rock tied to the other’s ankle pulling us under the great tide, or a jacket made of cork forcing out the deadly water and in life’s air. Enablers and saviors, life and death. Hand-in-hand, for better or for worse. My sisters.

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