We
by Rumer Henry

We grew up in the same house, but not together, her and I. We shared the same walls in different spaces of time. Our separate sanctuaries were found outside those walls, the quietest of places hidden along the outskirts of town. Barefoot and dirt-streaked, we climbed into the tree limbs above us. Legs swinging high above grass and gravel, we felt light and heavy at the same time, never forgetting we eventually had to come back to the ground. Silent, we walked, wanting to hear the ping of rocks hitting the never-ending metal tracks that stretch out and touch the horizon. Escape ever eluding. We were never together. We were never alone. Now, as we call each other in hushed tones, our feelings gurgling in the back of our throats, threatening to burst from our mouths and spill into the static between us.  

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We know: our fears are not unfounded. Our resolve is our anthem, throwing shadowed hope and anticipated relief on the dark alleys and desolate spaces confined within the four walls around us. As the atmosphere grows lighter, we pause. Our fingers grip. Our bodies turn. We tiptoe our way back into the darkness, to show our brother that the light is there. We will walk beside him; we will let him know. We see it now.

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