“She’s your sister.  She ought to be in school, not flitting around from deadbeat to drunken deadbeat.  She never even talks about her writing anymore.  She’s falling.”

I check the fridge.  No fresh garlic.  I’ll have to use the powdered stuff.  And sure, it’ll work, but somewhere inside, a little part of me dies forever.

© 2003 Karim Pearson