9

Do you remember when we were younger, younger than these days?

The darkness, the shade of trees and dappled sunlight between the leaves.

The tension, the unspoken between us,

mud on our shoes,

Wimbledon Common.

Remember the walk?

The anger, the steam off our skin as we rushed, the pavement,

our feet - and grass - stinging sinuses -

the endless, endless walk to the station.

Boarding in silence, a snake - big basilisk over London.

The streets are silent beneath the train tracks,

cars soundless, people quiet on their phones from behind these thick (not thick enough) tinted windows.

All of this beneath us, around us -

all of this infinity -

all in a days work.

The tiled tunnels, the smell of long hours in the office.

Quick worms trundle, screech, burrowing under the factory that this city has become.

The blue seats and green line, the yellow circle, funny names (Cockfosters, Bakerloo, Eeling).

Remembering routes in our heads, till they become second nature, till they're instinct - unnoticed - mechanics -

Earls Court - Hammersmith - how long till we get home?

I hope it never ends.

On the bus, Emilia's guitar banging against my legs and in the way, but I don't apologize, no one does here. These Londoners and their manners.

Feeling stressed and dazed.

In love, bowled over -

our lives so far and so long on the same path,

now at an ugly fork.

I began to despise you, because you refused to understand, or at least show me that you might grasp this - this - this.

You sank within, and turned away.

I didn't know you anymore, and you didn't want to know me anymore.

Your face growing smaller on that platform on an early morning years ago.

It didn't occur to me that I was losing you - had already lost you, and would never know you - the you that is now.

Describing you: private, poised, sarcastic, dry, independent and dare I whisper it, glorious.

The selfish one disappears - she who hurt you and was senselessly cruel all to often.

But the lonely me yearns for you everyday.

And I'm caught off guard - when I laugh, or glimpse my face in the window of a moving bus - and they're yours.

The laugh, that face. Your jokes, your smile.

In my burning shame, and out of my guilt.

Broken promises and sleepless nights.

In and out.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

I'm sorry and I'm sorry and I'm sorry and

little sister I'm so sorry.

~

When my sister introduced me to Damien Rice, and I scoffed and closed my ears.

It wasn't until I was in the process of severing myself violently from her that he came to soothe my pain.

Such raw angst. Such freeing agony.

Voices merged that I stumbled too, doubled over in the heady mixture of anger and love.

Damien Rice is an Irish singer/songwriter, often accompanied by the beautiful Lisa Hannigan.

These songs are from his second album, released in 2006.

Beloved by sensitive poet types, wannabe singer/songwriters, the broken hearted and potential drunks the western world over.

I can't hear these songs without thinking of my magnificent sister,

without feeling hope for her, pride in her (though I've done nothing for her), grief covered in defiance, envy at her effortless talent and ability to carve her own way.

I know that even when these songs come to lose their meaning, they won't lose their power to make me chuckle quietly, even when I'd much rather weep.