Excerpt: Three Attention Deficit Sisters and the Mafia
Not long after Carolee told me about her dream, I had one of my own, one of those confusing jumbled visions. I was eighteen, Carolee seventeen as I said; she was seventeen when she told me. My sister Carolee had not doubted for one measly minute, she adamant about those colors underneath and the way we entangled. Hers so vivid that mine seemed iffy and inconsequential by comparison.
In retrospect, I came to realize that Carolee retained only a brief glimpse of our past, confirmed by what she missed. She never mentioned Darren, or Myrna for that matter. Our past was about us, our shared protoplasm sparked into being. My sister set the stage, imbedded our story like a genetic code, its secret for me to hear and remember since she wouldn’t be with me to tell it. She sensed before my dream, hers first: water and revival. Mine a dry dusty patch behind a wagon train.
Now here’s the truth. No second-guessing. Whether Carolee’s breathing next to me or not is a moot point. Writing solo way beyond my reach: not a remote possibility without my sister guiding me.