After

My sister and I had the same face. Our mother confuses our baby pictures. Sometimes I take photos of myself, and for a brief moment, I think my sister is still alive.

I am in charge of figuring out what to do with her body. I call mortuaries recommended by the coroner and send the body to be cremated. Sometimes it is her body, other times it is the body. I don’t know which one feels worse.

There is a Christmas present, still wrapped, from the hopeful time before. I can’t remember what is inside, only that I bought it a few weeks before she died, on the small chance she would be speaking to us by December. What do you do with a gift that no longer has a recipient?

I do not want to drive to pick up her ashes. There is an option to have them shipped. When the postwoman delivers them, I wonder if she knows she is handing me the wreckage of a life. I have to sign for the package.

I cannot talk about my mother’s face after I told her Sarah was dead. It is knotted deep in my chest. I am afraid that if I untie it, I will unravel completely.