I wonder what ever happened to that ceramic figurine that mom had, the remaining one of two bookends that used to stand on the top of the bookcase in her room. There were two of them, of course.  Two women from some distant era, with long dresses, from the time of Jane Austin, I think.

Both of the delicate ceramic figures are long gone, but for a long time there was just one.

The way I remember them was that one stood at the far right end of the books with her hand raised to her mouth, whispering some delicious and naughty gossip to her sister at the other end of the books.  The woman at the far left stood smiling, her left hand cupped around her ear, listening intently to the  story the other woman was whispering, a big grin on her face as she received the illicit rumors filtered through all of the other stories lined up in the books along the shelf.

One of them, the story teller I think, disappeared long ago, and for many years her lone sister stood listening, waiting for the news that never came, waiting for more stories. Waiting, with her hand up, cupping her ear, leaning in to try to hear the faintest whisper of gossip, to hear the sweet sound of her long lost sister’s voice.

The hours I used to spend looking at her, the listener, eagerly waiting the words.  Eagerly waiting the truth, or lies even, anything.  Just speak to me, dear one.  Let me hear your voice.

I became her.

Waiting and listening.  But my sister was gone, and she was never coming home again.