The Big Box on the Porch

My sister hasn’t talked to me in decades.

Over the many years, letters I’ve sent to her have been returned including one telling her that our brother had died. I took pictures of her estranged son’s grandchildren and sent them to her because, upon meeting them for the first time, I found them so sweet and endearing. One of them, the little girl, looked just like my sister.

She sent those pictures back as well. I thought to myself, couldn’t you just put them in a drawer?

There is more, of course, a long history. Siblings and parents and layers of hurt feelings, everyone with their own carefully constructed cairn of grievance. The notion that a minor offense against another person could result in the declaration, you’re dead to me, was part of our culture growing up. Cousins and aunts disappeared without warning, like dissenters in Pinochet’s Chile.

Late last week, I came home to find a large box on my front porch. It was from my sister. I opened it to discover mounds of Styrofoam packing peanuts covering two large packets of my grandmothers’ embroidery, two photo albums containing very old pictures of our grandparents and other relatives, and a gold-plated hairbrush and hand mirror.

There was no note. Of course, there was no note.

Why would there be a note? Because she has something to explain?

One friend told me that if this happened to her, she would drive across country and knock on the sister’s door, insist that the sister tell her what the heck was going on. I’m not doing that.

Another friend told me to write her a thank you note for having gone to the trouble of sending all those things. I’m not doing that either.

I’m going to keep the photos and give the rest away. And figure that my sister has finally decided to answer my mail.

It was a long time coming.