The Weight We Share

When the water hit her head,
I remembered the argument
you and I pulling at the same truth,
trying to prove
which one of us was right.

As if being right
could save her.

Grief tangles itself into story.
It weaves guilt through memory,
webbing our bodies and minds
until blame tightens its grip
around what cannot be changed.

That morning,
before the phrase ever reached us,
I heard her breathing through the door
ragged, uneven,
already slipping away.

I didn't open it.

Somehow, my body knew
what my mouth refused to say.

Later, you told me
what the spirit had whispered to you:
when the water hits her head.

Not a metaphor.
Not a warning.
A moment.

When our mother would come home,
drop us off from school,
step into the shower
that would be when my sunray
would leave this world.

You knew the time.
I knew the night.

Two children
each carrying half of fate,
neither of us old enough
to hold it whole.

It felt like a gift at first
this knowing.
But it cut like glass in our hands,
sharp with responsibility
we never asked for.

We were only thirteen and eleven,
trying to digest the impossible:
that destiny does not bend
even when it is seen.

Death cannot be avoided,
no matter how far ahead
it announces itself.

Only honored.
Only survived.

And it was never our fault
that we stayed silent.