When We Visit Our Sisters by Jennifer Skogen

We carry our offerings to the beach by moonlight, us sisters who have stayed behind.

We wear hiking boots–or at least closed toed, sporty sandals–to protect our feet from broken oyster shells. Our steps are uncertain: we slip on kelp ribbons and slick rock, brace ourselves against driftwood. We dare not bring a flashlight and risk scaring our sisters away. They are no longer accustomed to artificial lights, having lived so long in the realm of soft-glow and shadow. Phosphorescence and reflection. 

We inhale salt-mist and mineral-dark air as we approach the water and exhale coffee or mint. Oregano from pizza, or siracha from takeout pad thai. Our sisters’ breath will smell like squid ink and fish bone. Like shark tail and anemone.

We bring candy bars and magazines, mascara and cherry lip gloss. We bundle novels in our sisters’ favorite sweater, balance theater popcorn (still warm), and pile strawberries and fresh bread in a basket from the farmer’s market. We bring all of the things our sisters might have bought for themselves, if they were still human. We bring sunlit things. Sugary things. Things that water will ruin. Only the mascara is waterproof.

Come back, come back: we send whispers and pleas into the waves instead of text messages, for our sisters have long ago abandoned their phones.

Sometimes our sisters do not hear us.

Sometimes our sisters hear us and simply, we fear, choose to ignore us. They may have found more interesting ways to spend their moonlit hours than seeing their human sisters, we do not know.

We never know.

We just wait.

We wait and listen, should the soft plash of the tide shift to something more deliberate. We watch, should the glint of a wave transform into a silver-rimmed arm or a stone-smooth cheek.

When our sisters rise to the surface, they smack their coral tails against the rocks and heave their water-logged bodies to where we stand, just above the waterline. They are uncomfortable out of the water, but they never ask us to wade in even a step to their domain.

Our sisters no longer look the way we remember: their teeth are pearled and sharp as shipwreck, their eyes flash bioluminous green. Their long, seaweed hair covers their breasts just the way we used to pretend as children, when we would bury our legs in sand and count how long we could hold our breath.

“You’re here,” they say, nonchalantly.

“I’m here.” We hold the gifts we’ve brought with outstretched arms, keeping a safe distance from our sisters’ teeth. They don’t take our gifts. They hardly ever take them.

Our sisters cock their heads and give us an appraising look. “You’ve grown older, but you look good. Healthy.”

“You look good as well,” we say, though it isn’t what we had planned. We wanted to ask her if she’ll come home with us, just for the night. We could watch Bridget Jones like we used to, and drink gin and tonics.

We wanted to invite her to a concert (her favorite band is playing tonight).

We wanted to walk with her: find a trail somewhere that smells of pinesap and rain and talk until our throats are raw. Talk until the morning sun rubs a hand across our sisters’ eyes.

We never say any of these things. We especially don’t say: Tell me how you grew your fins. Tell me how you sliced such delicate gills into the flesh of your neck. Tell me, sister, who taught you how to wrap your body in silence? How did you learn to disappear?

Our sisters give a last, wistful look to the popcorn. To the strawberries. To the novels, to the bread. Then they dart out a bloodless hand and take the mascara, hiding it somewhere in their fathoms of hair.

 “Catch you next time,” our sisters say, their attention already sinking down where we cannot reach. Then, with a splash, they are gone.

So, we carry the gifts back home with us. We eat the popcorn, the strawberries, the bread. We read the novels. We pull sweaters over our salt-stained heads and curl up on the couch until we stop shivering.

We wonder if our sisters are cold.

We wonder if they miss us. We wonder–the next time we make the long walk down to the water–if we will be brave enough to ask.