One Hundred and Thirty Nine

I shall never forget that summer night, the one that went on for seven days; the sound of the strangely suiting rain splattering on the window: the little sister pracing about the kitchen, the realization that she doesn't know suddenly dawning on me; of cinnamon; the loyal friend, flour-covered hands, uncertain of what to say, and worriedly glancing at her friend, still stunned and silent.

I remember we sat and ate sugar cookies and sat some more, and when it was done, we continued to sit. And later when she held me closer I mumbled the truth, the bitter reality that was stolen from me, and I felt every fiber in her being clench for me, begging me not to give up on words, begging me to see this - this of all things - is why I need to keep writing.