I constructed my sister’s portrait in three parts: her eyes painted full color, bright with oil, nose in colored pencil, a few shades more sallow, and her mouth lightly smeared No. 2 pencil,
because I wasn’t sure how to form the words for a police report never filed against you. And sometimes I pass you on my way to town, you still driving that ****, blue pickup with that same old sneer on your pig-like face--
I want to scream out my window the way I did when I dreamed you came to me years in the future, asking how I’ve been, some lame excuse to bury your immorality with rice-paper niceties. I remember my throat tore and bled as if I’d swallowed broken metal wire as I repeated over and again: Do you know what you did? Do you know what you caused?
I constructed my sister’s portrait with three bits of paper ripped apart and glued crudely together again.