She once was a true love of mine

Can I say that about my sister? Well, it's true. Except the "once was" part, actually. I do still love Alice; and I know she loves me too.

To me, Alice was a rock star, and I was her adoring fan. It's part of what makes living without her so sad and so difficult. Have I said this already? I feel like I have. It's been resonating in me lately.

The pretty melody and words of the Simon and Garfunkel song make me think of her. The images of USC from The Graduate also take me back.

Gumball machine

When I was 17 or so, I got a gumball machine for my bedroom. While I was living in Cerritos, I kept it stocked with colorful gumballs. From time to time I'd put in a penny and enjoy a sugary orb, and Alice did the same.

Then I moved away to college and maintained the contents less regularly, although I know I filled it at least once during my college years. Once I moved out of my mom's house, I stopped refilling the machine because it was no longer a priority.

It had a sufficient quantity of gum, though, and Alice continued to put in her coins and chew the fun bubblegum. Between her frequent visits with my mother, as well as her on-again off-again residence in my mom's house, she slowly went through all the gum in the machine.

During a recent visit, I felt a pang of pain, and yearning as I saw through the glass container, its belly totally empty. It tore me up inside, I felt regret that I hadn't refilled the machine recently so that Alice could partake in gum-chewing, and think of me, more easily.

Tears spill out of my eyes as I think of the momentary glee she might have felt, and instead, the disappointment she must have met the last couple of times she went by my room looking for a gumball.

In the end she probably consumed more gum than I did. Alice really knew how to savor some of life's little pleasures.

Scars

I was staring at L today, not an uncommon experience because she's so easy to look at, and I thought about the scar underneath her left eye. String, our cat, scratched her about two and a half years ago, and now there's a mark that will likely vanish over time.

It made me think about my forearms, and how they used to be covered in scabs -- not from scratches and pinches from our cat, but from Alice. Between the ages of 4 and 14 -- and I don't have to say who was which age because we were so close -- we frequently got into fights over something, or anything. At the time I bit my nails, and she didn't. Neither did she seem to cut them. When we fought, she easily dug her fingertips into the flesh of my arms, leaving skin hanging, and sometimes blood dripping.

During those years, the color of the skin on my arms blended into a nearly even brown, the shade of scabs becoming scars. And now as I look, and look, for Alice, I look down on my arms and see that my scars have healed. The visible scars, at least.

The one glaring scar on my existence has yet to heal. Meanwhile I can longingly remember the pinches and scratches that marked my childhood with Alice.