Walking down to the pier
my sister asked an uncomfortable question.
“How long have I been dead?”
“You know I don’t like to talk about this,” I said.
“Still, it’s been weighing on me.”
“It’s impolitic.”
“Hey,” she said, “Hey! It’s my life!”
“Well…”
“I want to be more in touch with my existence.
If you can help, shouldn’t you?”
She tried to grasp me, but I was being difficult.
“I get it; I do. It’s just painful to talk about.
Your passing was really hard on me.”
“I’ll bet it was no picnic for me, either!”
“Can we talk about this later?”
The rest of our walk was silent.

It was, in fact, the last time we spoke.