text: I hung out with my sister today. My sister and I met at the entrance to the cemetery today. We don't hang out a lot, but once a month we make our way, walking miles through the silent twists and turns to the mausoleum in the middle of the cemetery. "How's the last month been? Any news?" she asked as she picks at her split ends. At this moment, I am very jealous of her luscious hair. "Fine" I say, dodging a stick in the middle of the path, trying not to embarrass myself. We typically have to fit the last month of our lives in the short window. We try to keep the updates brief, making sure not to reminisce. I love my sister, but reminiscing hurts too much. Despite our long, hard lives, she looks youthful - her skin less weathered by the sun as opposed to mine, which is covered in sunspots and wrinkles. I’ve aged a lot in the past few years. “How are the kids?” I ask her. Her kids are teenagers now, I take a second to consider that I should stop calling them kids, but the thought quickly dissipates. “I don’t see them too much, unfortunately. You know how teenagers are, always so wrapped up in their own lives. I’d like to say I taught them well, but Mike has always been the strong one. I don’t know how he does it somedays.” “Mike is a good man,” I respond, “and you’re a great mother, Millie” She looks at me with doe eyes as we continue on the path. “No one talks about how hard it is to watch your kids grow,” I turn to her, “just last week my Sara turned 13. She’s starting middle school. At least I get to see this graduation.” She sighs but doesn’t continue the conversation. I think it’s hard for her, too, and I understand. The usual suspects are out and about. The graveyard keeper waves, and I wave back, still pouting from the thought of our kids getting older. The mausoleum comes into view. As we approach, she looks at me and asks “Do you remember the house we lived in growing up?” and I stop in my tracks. I did remember it, very well. We were poor, and we lived by the steel mill. “Yes - I do. Why do you ask?” I look at her, puzzled, as she breaks our unspoken rule. “Someone was dropped off here today and grew up down the road from us. I talked to them earlier today. They had the same brain cancer I did. I know our parents tried the best they could but living by the mill was bad news. I always knew it.” I burst out into tears. I didn’t want to tell her about the article that came out in the paper a few weeks before regarding recent deaths and how the families insisted a study be done on the drinking water in our hometown. We know enough now to know that the environment was the cause of her brain cancer, but that didn’t need to weigh on her. I continued to walk into the mausoleum. I turned to the spot where she stood to tell her that my chemo was unsuccessful, and I’ve only been given a few months to live, but she no longer stood there, her spot replaced with a chill. I walk to the grave on the wall and read the engraving. “Camilla Teeter - Mother, Wife, Sister, Friend. Fighter.