The Familiar Ways We Rot

 It was October, and the world was beautiful in its unique decay.

The way of the body, stiffening then slackening and becoming brittle from bone; the ashes that sprout from the remain of hollowed eyes, the low light plants that dig homes into the empty holes riddled throughout a body. The falling of only the most fragile leaves at only the harshest of moments, when the wind is unforgiving and the howling of it all covers the inherent noise of the world, the promises of rain, the unkempt yards, the wilted flowers.

It is around this time, without fail, in which we begin to stop nurturing life - instead, as autumn dawns, we succumb to the natural coming and going of things. We celebrate it, even, love the colors the leaves produce only in the wake of their death. For this reason, she finds herself sitting nearest the fireplace with every window lock unfastened, the inkblot sky offsetting any illusions of warmth that emanated from the room. Lamps and lanterns alike glow like spirits, swinging back and forth, back and forth, as the wind periodically billows in. The window shutter nearest her creaks dramatically before being tossed forth by an especially strong gust, tapping the wall behind it in a near hypnotizing rhythm.

Undeterred by the movement of the autumn-soaked world around her, she breathes slowly - in, out. The fireplace before her breathes in synchronicity, and the comforting smell of smoke and charred wood tugs at her nose, releases through her mouth, a ghost. Its blinking and ceaseless flickering becomes a song, illuminating the brown of her skin, stringing shadows into puppet-like dances on the walls which surround her.

It’s 3 AM, and the world has momentarily become a shadow - the Earth’s façade of color has begun to slip from its jaws. As it becomes hollow, otherworldly nature follows soft footprints set by the living, seeking to fill in any space left empty until the sun inevitably scrapes the dust away.

The voice of her sister echoes with the resonance and strength of thunder amid a storm; her reminders insistent, as if she was sure her wisdom would need to be used time and time again, even in her absence. She was always one to speak loudly, unwilling to speak without an accompanying bang or cymbal crash. This is where they differed - while the older sister was a summer hurricane, the younger sister was the quiet rage in the drift of trees.

Now, after all, was the perfect time to reminisce. The secret to resurrection, her sister had said, unbothered by any eavesdropping souls, is to remember.

Once again, she had been proven right. The season of death and the hope that it whispers into the wind, the time of death in which spirits are awakened and walking in the few moments they can steal from the depth of the night. A dead sister with the heavy expectation that once again, her autumn-cursed sister would get it right, breathe life into her lungs, summon smoke and fire and charcoal and rain. Along with the amalgamation of it all, the simple trust of sisterhood, unwavering even in death.

She would get it right, momentarily breathe into two sets of lungs, smell the petrichor leaking from her sister’s eyes.

Her sister’s face would contort into millions of different shapes, but its trademark glow, the crinkle of her eyes, the sparkle behind them, those would never leave. When plum lips spread themselves into a thin line whilst deep in thought the air had a perfect way of stilling around her, stirring only once she had reason to stand, an idea to share, a question to ask.

And there was nothing like her laugh, the jokes they would share, sweetened by the notion that nobody else would ever understand the secrets they traded between glances. She had a laugh that would wash over a crowd, clear the sky of clouds, summon rain in the barest of deserts - there was never a day in which a stranger would not preen at the trickle of her voice, leaning over foolishly to drink more of it in. There was no envy; instead, a meeting of the eyes, between two sisters, knowing no one would understand them in this way, knowing no strangers song could woo them into a love deeper than what they held. And still, knowing this search for the inherent romance of life was one that would end as soon as the ocean ceased to form waves.

In this way, there were storms. Her sister at the eye, watching debris drop like fallen stars robbed of innocence. There were always wishes to be made. Never wishes for the unsaid promises that come with sisterhood - promises like a life unperturbed by loneliness, which had a way of repenting on its knees in front of them, atonement for its wrongs said like vows.

During arguments, when sparks would take flight, their hearts lurched in ways that threatened to carve out their chests. This power of movement that comes with shared blood, the power of influence, the capability to truly impact another’s life in a way that can only be explained by a universe’s worth of loyalty and trust.

Truly, there was no love like a sister’s love. There was no way this love could not cross borders. Countries, beliefs, mortality.

Those that believe in resurrections - witches, spells, ghosts, and things of the like - are often to recite that the undead rise from the ground, clawing at the dirt, a special kind of vicious in them, an instinctual thirst for blood and carnage. But, having been experienced in the raising of the dead, she could attest to quite the opposite. Her sister, on the multiple instances she had needed to be returned to life (run over by an ambulance, pushed off of a building rooftop, stabbed in the back…) had more so shifted into existence. She had always been there, had always been waiting, knowing she had no reason to truly allow herself to pass on as her sister would always be in that parlor, windows ajar, candles lit. She was in the flashes of lightning, the glare of the starlight, the smoke from the fluttering fire. And, in a moment…

The room becomes stifled with whispers, each with their own voice and all with the single intention to return - millions of spirits stretch towards the momentary tear in the night, yearning for someone to reach for their hand, say their name, yearn for them back. Her sister’s voice materializes, becomes something solid and heavy - shiny and new, as if she had not died, merely been resting a sore heart. Next, the sharpness of her eyes, the scars that grace her neck, the strangeness of her legs in their bend as she kneels before her sister, made anew. The elegance of someone knowing that, in the chaos of any crowd, she will always be chosen.

In the moments that follow, it is quiet. The stars have finished falling, and the world is silenced by the density of reunion, as it is in those shut-door moments when you sleep. The sisters are held taut as if by rope, never breaking eye contact, seeing no reason for words. There are weeks caught in throats - giggles to be had and jokes to be made, tears to be shed, advice to be spoken into dinners of leftover food. There are conversations to be had, in all the time that they are not saying goodbye. When her kneeling sister opens her arms, she all but flings herself into them, remembering the warmth in the crook of her neck, the smell of her shampoo still lingering from her last day alive. If there is one thing she has learned, it’s that separation - in all its necessity - will never be easy. There are lost moments which drift through the air like fireflies. Unsaid words which burst like fireworks, their exigence hardly enough to keep them alive. Companionship, which flickers in and out all too similar to an unsteady fire, will always be craved, more by those who have felt it just as much as its loss.

They had been blessed with each other, and thus had never felt a crippling loneliness or the cracks left in one’s heart once it shatters beyond repair. Who was the universe to take this from them? Who was it, but just as cynical and envious as it was benevolent?

They would stand at death’s door as many times as needed, pull the other through from the end and its insistent darkness. They would spend lifetimes telling stories of the smoke which resides at the end of the tunnel rather than the light. They would send postcards between the living, save bottled up sounds of laughter for the dead whom no doubt longed to be recalled. And they would spend this life together - then someday, when they have finished saving each other, the next.