February 2012
Irene
My sister.
Her eyes make more sense than any one person’s words. She is drawn to death and justice by nature and loves the twisted kind of jokes. Her hair is white, soft and always smells like flowers. When you cry she places her small, delicate hand on your shoulder, just below the clavicle and curls her bottom lip in compassion. She does not say too much, just enough. Her small frame of a...
