Anne tore the card open and confetti hearts spilled all over the floor.
To be found years later in the cracks and crevices of the ancient wood.
A Valentine from her sister.
How much it meant, her sister could never know. To a little girl who always felt alone.
How much Anne loved the loops of her handwriting. Or the way she drew a heart where the return address was supposed to be.
She could never know.
Remembering her with curlers in her hair and the way she applied blush to her cheeks. The face she makes in the mirror as she examines the angles of her visage.
To Anne, the most beautiful of eyes and brows and noses and mouths.
Anne placed her hands on Catherine's cheeks and declared, "I wish my cheeks were soft like yours!"
"Be patient. Someday they will be."
And eventually they were. No longer the ruddy cheeks of childhood.
Soft cheeks, only to realize how much less alone she was then than she is now.
Then: when they shared ribbons and a bathroom and Anne peered through the crack in the doorway to overhear Catherine's conversations so she could emulate and imitate.
And so many years later... "my sister" ... my one sister. The singularity of it even more potent.
Alas!
A lone Valentine in the mailbox "to my sister."
Anne tore the card open.
