On New Year’s Eve, she wants the story of Headless Jenny.
“If you sled down the hill at midnight, faster than her, Jenny will appear by the road, where she was hit. Dangling her head by the hair. But if you lose—”
She screams and laughs. Snuggles up close.
Like we’ve always been sisters.
On waking, she says she saw Headless Jenny.
Fever-flushed cheeks, dripping sled by the window.
“But she had your head,” she whimpers. “She said you’d lost. And had to take her place.”
I laugh. Tell her it was a dream.
Like we’ve always been sisters.
