Photo by Mélanie Berliet
It’s not the first time I’ve rummaged through my older sister’s stuff. But alone in Céline’s childhood bedroom on the day after her death, at 30, from cirrhosis, for the first time I don’t run the risk of getting caught.
I trace the underwire of a powder blue silk bra. Wonder whether she purchased it with a specific guy in mind. Touch the sleeve of a heather grey cardigan to my face. Eskimo kiss it. Recall how, for a time, we both favored clothing in this comforting color. It wasn’t often our wardrobe tastes were so aligned. I consider an ill-advised faux snakeskin clutch. Each item—even the junky stuff—is hard to part with. All of her belongings mean something to me. Don’t they?
“Don’t be an idiot,” I hear my sister say.
I put everything away.
But just as I push the top dresser drawer shut…
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