— she —

Goodbye. 

To the abuse. To what once was, to the possibility of embrace, to our lives of purgatory, to the loss of love, to the grief of beliefs, and to the unending, incredulous conversations.

I am resilient. 

Facing adversity with opportunity, forging paths of misrepresented combativeness, and broadening our environments to accept our individualized and nuanced differences.  

My sisters are also resilient. 

Their achievements and triumphs of momentous stature assist in shoveling the valleys of pain and despair that much deeper. Where did they obtain such strength? 

IS SHE RESILIENT TOO? 

—

Perhaps in her own way, she can testify to her strength. 

She has faced adversity, certainly, but can the tenacity of oppressionists be qualified as resilience? Does the potency of the Catholic religion nullify the plasticity of our human existences? Is a false redemption rectifiable? 

ARE CHILDREN REPLACEABLE? 

— we —

Hope can be dangerous, yet fear is always more threatening. 

Hope may lead a congregation to blindly follow their leader, assuming a belief that eternal life exists in Heaven, after death here on Earth. This hope is dangerous; It creates an absolute truth from an unverifiable claim. She may be enticed to follow a pathway of Hope – unaware that it was humans who plowed it. 

As she once told me, TO FOLLOW THIS PATH, WOULD BE TO PUT YOUR LIFE IN DANGER. 

Fear may lead a congregation to follow their leader, assuming a belief that the eternal damnation of Hell awaits Earthly sinners. This fear is threatening; It suggests harsh, unending punishment for simple and severe acts alike. She may stray from the morals of her creator – threatened by the power of those she deems divine on Earth. 

As I once told her, I’D RATHER BE AT RISK OF DANGER, THAN HAVE MY LIFE THREATENED BY THE ONES WHO MADE ME. 

— me —

Before I was outed, there was one time – one singular instance – where I nearly came out to her; Fully, entirely, of my own volition. We had been out together, gathering gifts and supplies, preparing for our mutually-shared second-favorite holiday: Christmas. Making a loop around Wanamaker, night had fallen, and it was already past dinnertime. Rumor had it: my siblings had already eaten, so tonight, my dinner would only be shared with her. Our options were certain, but our choice would be based on her craving… Tonight, would she prefer the guacamole from Chipotle or the Fajita Veggies from Qdoba? 

Normally, either would suit my fancy, but I had given myself an ultimatum: If we got Chipotle, nothing would happen; If we got Qdoba, I would come out to her. 

As we drove north towards the highway, our decision became clear. Tonight, she and I would have Qdoba. We pulled into the lot, where I quickly excused myself from going inside, giving me time to prepare what I would say to her. She walked the line, and with each step my pulse grew stronger. She pulled her card out of her purse, and the cells of my body throbbed in perfect unison. She filled our drink cups – two large cokes – and my eardrums were pierced by an ungodly ringing. She made her way outside; my heart sank. She opened her door; my mouth dried. She turned on the car; my lungs collapsed. She began to drive; my bones are broken. 

Turning left on Wanamaker forces you across five lanes of busy traffic. Like me, she is a safe driver, and waited for a clear opportunity to cross. From the passenger seat, I cracked my window, consciously giving effort to my breathing. I allowed my gaze to wander past the glowing Qdoba sign, into the dark clear sky behind it. Trying to focus on any single star, I asked the god that I didn’t believe in to give me a sign. Do I do this or not?!

Our Acura MDX lurches forward before coming to an abrupt halt. She was going to turn, but didn’t see a car in her peripheral. God had given me a sign: it was not the time. 

—

I was hopeful, at the time, that it had been the right one; that she might take it well; that she may still show me love. Fear existed within me too, I wondered if she would hurt me physically, emotionally; did she even love me as I was? 

When I was outed the following year, she berated me for lying to her. She demanded that the chaos of my outing could have been avoided had I been truthful earlier. Where would that blame rest now? 

Am I still a liar? Is god? 

Can god give misdirection? And if not, which of us honors the falsity? 

Had I been given the sign to speak, would our lives be that much different now? 

If her god is all-knowing, was god feeding her lies too? 

Can we direct anger to god, if by her belief, god is whom she is meant to fear? 

DOES A LOVING GOD EVER NEED TO SMITE THEIR CREATION? 

— 

I will not give up on hope. 

Yet, her?

And, my god? 

Them, I’d never fear. 

— you —

To live a life of cowardice, sounds to me, to be, a life that is not lived; A life already dead. If abortion is a sin, and suicide is too, then allowing death to lead your life is sinful-sacreliege, and the Earth shall scorn you too. 

Should I be a liar, a being of malintent, then you shall stand up tall, head over heart over him. A lie to curse my tongue, dry my pen, unbind my key; A truth to which you can commit. Yet if it stood thus so, by god, you would remain corrupt. Cause had I lied, even if just once, my voice would only amp. You know it true, as your faith is too, so let us ask ourselves: 

DID MY SISTERS DESERVE IT TOO? 

— her i —

The morality of a lie – my sin and drug of choice. Perhaps, the sound, alone, was enough to rescue her voice. The bravest of them all, strongest in the night, least tame within the bunch, and most loyal of the flight. Her mane is her virtue, but her roar serves itself to inspire you. What sin was her stake, if it was I that threw the stone? 

Could you name one? Find a lie or craft false omit? Come withholding, come fence-walking, or giving you a split?

No lie, then no problem – and so it stands, none other present. 

So why, then? Mistreat her? Abuse her? and Neglect? 

Why cast her aside? Appear a new hurdle? Submit: Failed Parent? 

If the lie was just mine – no one else to lay blame – then the liar is you.

GUILTY OF FALSIFIED SIN.

— her ii —

To think about the times you hurt me: my voice, your ring, his belt. It makes you think of what it shows: my power, your sacrament, his absence. They shine a light on who we are: the ones who live, the one distracted, and the one playing too many parts.

Transposed, fixed desires. Both intents go unheard, though voices never quiet. You fought for her once, why’d you come to stop the riot? 

Frail memories of trying. You, armorless in battle, laid weapons to the Earth; Let those three white flags soar. Named them after his parents, sister, ‘stead after your children. Surrendered to the devil – missing your voice, your spawn, your soul.  

WHAT CAME OF THE FIFTEEN LONG YEAR WAR?

— her iii —

Time come for you to answer; Accountability drawn forth. 

Once upon a time, your protective instinct was true; ‘Least, say you to REDACTED . In the year twenty-ten, the one after the crime, you wrote to them, pleading, over course of seventy-five lines. Explained the situation, your credentials, factual information, you told the truth quite nicely. Stated only relevant info – semi-repeated offense, of danger to others near, left the god-shit at the door, gave professional un-professional recommendation – and said it all with your full chest. 

You know, with time, this helped, I’m sure: The words you wrote, the truth you bore – all of reality impact. The recommendation, eventually taken, alleviation, maybe some. You hadn’t spoken to them since then… What made you start again? 

The wound was healing, the stitches sewn, why stab the knife back in? Chat them up, invite them over, called it as a win. Did you think of her? Her tender soul? And how her body will still feel? Did you ask her thoughts? Ever her advice? Or spared a moment, to be her listening ear? Would you shame her still? Ignore her hurt? And say she was deserving too? Those words were theirs, your actions align. 

DO YOU EVER THINK OF HER? 

— they —

TRANS- [Prefix]: On the other side of; Across or beyond; Through; Such as to change. 

Definitively, they are trans-moralists. Should they be inclined to understand themselves, they would, by the nature of their catholic virtue, exist undignified in the presence of their peers, their congregation, their homes. Though catholic churches do welcome conversions, they do not believe in breaking the sacrament of confirmation; Once a catholic, always a catholic. As such, a trans-moralist becomes undignified in their misalignment with the church’s values. 

The issue here is not the transition; The issue is the morality. The misaligned correlation extends outside the family unit, outside the congregation, and outside ourselves. The national moralistic divorce will grow messier until we broaden communication. Yet, if transition – if change – occurred before, then transition can occur again. 

Our present is their gift, and death still comes to part. Time escapes us, wrinkles deepen, and our generations shall continue. Hairs run gray, closets hanger, and memories fade from in us. 

This troubled chapter, be it your end? Or is what’s next, for now, unwritten? 

– mom –

I wish you luck, not for what could have been. 

I’ve grown so much, I’ve made me proud, 

and you, you’d think the same. 

I hope you well, not for the worst.

I’d want you known by now, 

you can do better, you can still grow;

A Sister, Sister or A World Alone.