Before this semester in Italy, I had enjoyed writing for school, but now for the first time I was driven to write for myself. I began to need to write…
What happens to a place when it can no longer define itself by its history, when it tears everything down? What is the rust belt without the plants, the factories? Who is the boy without his sister?
“They were stupid questions because he already knew the answers to them,” Dad said. “He just hadn’t taken the time to think about them. And questions you haven’t thought out are stupid ones.”
Because we’re adept cave dwellers, because we pull down the shades and curl into each other, because we find some sort of domestic bliss in being fake-married for seven days, I think we can do anything.
Because that’s how it is with sisters. You are them. You are not them. You are broken shards from the same pane of glass, each reflecting a different light.