I never know what to do when someone is singing me happy birthday. It’s why I never tell anyone when my birthday is. It’s also why I make sure I’m home alone all day.
So I refuse to open my eyes as I hear someone singing above my bed, leaning in closer and closer.
After my daughter woke my up for the third night in a row, I was getting near the end of my tether. After she stopped babbling about the man at the window, I finally convinced her to let me tuck her back into bed.
When she finally settled, I opened her window for some fresh air and saw a figure on the street, smiling far too widely. As it turns to walk away on limbs that don’t quite bend right, I lean out and find my hands resting on scratch marks on the window frame of my fifth floor apartment.
I never got over the death of my twin sister. My parents seemed to move on quickly, they always said that they were just happy to still have me.
I miss Jennifer.
I miss being called by name and I hate that I had to move into her old room and wear her old clothes.