Each year on January 24th, I think of my sister Blanche and wonder where she is. The last time I saw her was December 1979, and the last time we spoke was in fall 1993.
During that call she informed me that she wanted nothing to do with our past. “Does that include me?” I asked. “Yes,” she answered.
I began to cry.
“Why are you crying?” she asked. “We have nothing in common. We’re not even related.” (We were each adopted from different families; she four years before I.)
“But we grew up together,” I replied. “We share our past.”
A few weeks later, the Malibu fire erupted. Our home was endangered, and Blanche left a message asking if we were all right. I wanted to call her back but had no number.
In 2007 I obtained her address and wrote her a note. No answer.
The following year I sent another note. The post office returned it with a stamp saying “Addressee Unknown.”
And so today I think of Blanche, hope she is alive, wish her well, but realize that the answer UNKNOWN.