There’s this movie about a tragic family of wrestlers; you’d have loved it.
Toward the end, a character is sobbing watching his young sons roughhouse on the lawn;
One of them asks him what’s wrong, and he says, “I used to be a brother.” 
I think about you all the time.
I used to be your sister, then slowly I wasn’t, now I’m not, I guess.
You died so fast.

I want to tell our stories, but no one wants half
our broken story.
They already have stories.

Mom took really good care of your dog until he died.  
Not to get maudlin here, but he looked for you
every morning for the rest of his life.
Maybe he found you?
I’m desperate to ask you how it works,
the other side stuff.
Maybe you’re with all our grandparents 

at the picnic table in the backyard at the farm,
Remember Grandpa getting watermelons from the garden,
his pocket knife cutting them from the vine,
slicing them on the picnic table?

I used your ticket, 
-and I’m telling you this to gloat-
to see Phantom of the Opera after you died.
        Maybe you did see it. If you did, wouldn’t that make you
        The Phantom of The Phantom of the Opera? 
We watched Long Island Medium and A Haunting every day. 
No one wanted to believe like we did.

I hope it’s all true. 
You and your dog and our grandparents and the picnic table and sweet watermelon.

I hope it’s all true.