My Sister, who died before I could meet her.

 So you were in Brighton one time? (Close to my hometown.  My sister.  Died a few short years before I learned of her existence.  I have a few photos of her.  This is one of them)

Emma.  Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood.  Which exact railing was that?  Because I want to touch it.  I want to put my hand where your hand once was.  I want to see what you saw.

I don't dwell in the past, but sometimes my past drives up so fast it sprawls me across its bonnet.

The longing that begins in my gut in my centre and spreads outwards like a arm, a hand, reaching, imploring, yearning for you.  The physical presence of you.

I know that blue sea and the pier and the style and colour of the buildings you would have seen. I know the way the seabirds ride the onshore breeze coming over the waves from southwest and the sounds of those gulls and the traffic from the A259 in front of you, how its rushing roar envelops the laughter that floats up from the beach and Madeira Drive below you.  I know the feeling of the cold old Victorian railings under your hand, thick and rough with layers of peeling aquamarine paint.  I too have inhaled the tang of fresh ozone, exhaust fumes, cigarettes and fish and chips.

When was that taken, and where was I, at that exact moment?  Was I at work, in that very city?  Or 20 minutes up the A23 at home?  Or was I out for the day, a nice fresh walk along the seafront, the sea like a millpond but a bright little breeze in the air.  The traffic, the laughter, the gulls and the people and a beautiful young woman leaning against the railings whilst her husband takes her picture.  One to look at when we're old, I expect he was thinking (except you never got there).  Did I pass and smile and not even know? Or would I have known, how could I have known, how could I not have known? How?  How close, in actual miles, did we ever come to one another after being eggs in her ovary even as she was in our grandmother's womb?  How could I have lost you after being so close?

I don't dwell in the past, but these tiny shreds of paper pictures of the past are all I have of you.  All I have of my sister is in the past.  For you are behind a veil now.  Do you sit at my table Emma, or are you up there in the stars?  Or by a blue sea, near the pier, by that railing. (which one is it exactly?)