January 4th, 1969

Mama wishes you'd come back. Hell, I do too. I miss the way you would take me everywhere with you, and the way you would take care of me when no one was around. Anyway, I got your postcard from New York. My friend Paul says that I've got the luckiest sister in the world. I suppose he's right, although it doesn't feel that way. Don't forget to write soon.

April 17th, 1969

Mama tells me to stop writing, but I won't. I think you'll write and so, I'll continue. I know that I'm not really smart, but people say that I write good letters. In all honesty I want to say goodbye to you, I really do, but I can't bare the feeling of this loneliness inside of me. Every day is the same, and I can't help but figure that it's because you're gone, and the news only spits bad news. Everyone assures me that you're safe.

But are you really? You never write - hell! I bet you never even read this. You're parading with your friends in New York, but you said it would only be temporary. You must not want to come back, and I don't blame you. This dreamy, old seaport town will succumb to the crevasses of my lonely mind (just as it did for you), and eventually my melancholic life. Days go by and sometimes I feel like dying, but it's the mere thought of you that keeps me going by. Mama says that it's only a matter of time before we'll leave this place, but I don't believe her. Everything and nothing's changing at the same time. There's still cracks in the walls of your room, painted a mute blue, the color of the sky. A room I don't touch anymore.

I imagine the cool hues of New York as I sit on this chair that you bought that one night when we had nowhere to sit in our empty house. We had just moved in, and Mama was too negligent to care enough about the fact that we were starving. The room we shared was illuminated by the light of the falling sun, and your lips turned a crooked smile as I eyed you across the room. At that moment, as the sky became the color of night and the luminance had dimmed from the enclosed space, I had a realization: you were my best friend. My confidant, my guardian, my greatest love. We hadn't broken glances even as darkness paraded the house, the silence lingering under our breath. I knew you couldn't stay. It was time to go.

I'm sorry that I wrote all of this. Please, please, write soon. Got-to-go, Mama's coming soon.

August 6th, 1969

Today's my first birthday without you and Mama. I don't know where she is. You still haven't written, but I'm too tired to ask you now.

I got your postcard from Paris, it's nice. I hope you're happy wherever you are. I hope Mama's happy too.

I've got to walk the piers. They say it's good for the mind, but I don't know if it'll be any help anymore.

January 1st, 1970

This is the last time I'll write. I don't know where I'm going, but I know that it's not too far. Mama hasn't come back, and I don't think she will.

I cried for the first time since you left last night. It seemed like everything finally came over me. I hadn't realized how much growing older has changed me and how afraid I really was to battle this world alone. I've made myself believe that I'll get things in order now, since neither you nor Mama is around anymore, but then I realize that I don't know what I'm doing.

I'll try to disappear, just as the memories of you and I have strayed. The cracks in the walls will still be there. Your memory will stay with me, because I know you'll forget. I imagine that you've fallen in love, perhaps dozens of times, and have found yourself new friends. I shouldn't be jealous since we were more like sisters than friends... and besides, Mama isn't your real mother anyway. Maybe that's why you stay away.

There's a certain silence in the air; the emptiness haunts my soul. I know that somewhere in your heart you might be disappointed in me, and I've accepted that harsh realization. The truth is that someday you may reminisce over the laughter, the closeness, and the adventures. I know I will.