The last time she heard from her sister was a few years ago when the St. Louis police called in the middle of the night. Dorothy was found confused and roaming the streets in the rain. She knew her address so the police took her home and when asked for a contact number, Dorothy gave the only number she remembered.
It was my mother’s.
It is hard to explain how sisters who were once so close, could fall so far apart. My mother, Bette, is now eighty-eight and Dorothy is two years younger. Out of nine brothers and sisters, these two now, only have each other. Growing up, they did everything together; they shared secrets and clothes and each other’s friends. They slept in the same bed and double dated to dances and when they each married and had children, Bette and Dorothy vacationed together, so their kids could grow up with cousins.
I remember those days.
Their mother lived into her eighties and her passing seemed to change things. Bette and Dorothy’s children grew up and had children of their own. Dorothy’s family was settled in St. Louis while my mother’s life was right here. So, the sisters settled for calls on holidays and birthdays to check on each other and share stories about their grandkids.
For the complete article, see this week’s edition of the Centralia Fireside Guard.