It is odd for me, whose face is transparent glass for all to see though to my emotional mind, to say that I doubt I would ever write a memoir.
Blogging is a sort of living memoir for some, especially those who use it like a diary of daily moods and events, but the actual details of my life are not worth the effort to record. It is my thoughts that I want to translate here, not the events that inspired them.
The events are mine, and uneventful, really.
I spent most of yesterday, and much of this morning trying to find a way to tell a story about my sister (it is her birthday today.) But I have found that I shall not share her with you. My sister is mine to have and to hold to love and cherish. My memories of events past and future are not for sharing. Not like that. I may use bits and pieces here and there for flavoring, but never as the meal.
And, of course, she is already here. She has been here since the beginning, sprinkled about in every post, in every thought and idea. My best work and words are inspired by her words and work. All of my life is what it is because she is there, sitting right next to me, in contrasting clothing.
Wise and witty, full of
Tempestuous moods and
Brilliant as you are
Beloved friend, my