Young One

Jane.
An original written by Alexandra.

Playing draughts - the artist’s sisters (1908)
Brian Hatton

My soul searches for you. It will never rest,
sleep or break. It is constantly yearning – even
in the latest of hours, the darkest of nights.

My soul’s crevices so preciously cradle the
secrets you shared with me. Even when we were
young girls and I felt compelled to share every
thought I had with the world, I knew inherently
that whatever you told me was for my ears only. For
only my soul to know and nurture. Mother did not know,
nor did father. I would, absolutely, never betray you,
even though I feel so incredibly betrayed by you,
by everyone, by God most of all.
This string of secrets and unspoken
understandings between us lined our sisterhood.
These secrets and thoughts comprised the very
essence of you. I had you, and you had me.

Every so often, we, together, would dig into the
crevices and extract the secrets, the memories, the
most inner thoughts. We did not do it frequently,
for there was so much emotion buried beneath the surface
that we did not want to devalue. What treasures
were crystallised down there. They kept us afloat, together.

My goodness, we would erupt in laughter until our
stomachs were rock hard and we were literally gasping
for air. We would cry and sob until our eyelids stung and
we had no choice but to surrender to the fatigue. You
would so naturally nestle your head into my shoulder, like
it was made for it. Each time you would do so was an
affirmation: we were the perfect fit.

Mother would be furious each time she would
discover you had slept in my room, especially
on a school night, but for once, we did not listen.
These secrets and midnight discussions were invaluable.
I looked at you with such pride and emotion. I
simply could not help it. You were my biggest reason and
everything I wish I was. You were enviably so young but
had an undeniable, intrinsic wisdom and knowingness
that would exude out of you. You were little and small,
but big in your presence and dreams.

I do not even want to sleep in my own bed anymore.
I stare at the other side of it and you are so obviously
absent. The imprint of you is long gone, and the sheets
and blanket sit there so painfully cold. I do not dare lie
where you lay. I remain on my side – your side is for you
to come and warm up again. Please come warm it again.

Mother still gets angry each time she finds me in bed,
but it is now because I will not get up. I can understand
her frustration – she does not want to lose two
daughters. But I simply do not want to engage
and be active. I lie here a corpse. Perhaps it is
because if you were to return, I know the first place
you would come is here.

I cannot sleep. The echoes of your laughter and
the phantom dampness of my tears haunt me. It is horrid
and it shatters my heart constantly. They
will not leave me alone. I used to think it was you
attempting to reconnect, but you would never resort
to being so cruel. You were too kind. Your secrets
were so laughably innocent and harmless, even the ones you
were hesitant to reveal.

You still conceal the greatest secret of all, though.
Why did you leave? Return to me, nestle in my neck,
whisper the answer in my ear. I need answers.
Until then, your secrets are irretrievable and stoned
in the fractures of my heart which has now turned to granite.

No matter what, I have you, and you will most certainly
always have me. In life, in spirit, in death.

Two Sisters (1901)
William-Adolphe Bouguereau