Her face, I was lucky to experience. 

A picture that I lost. She was my only friend, over thirty years ago now. Krissa, my sister. Rose Striped dress, frosty hands britted by winter in Boston. Her face rang a bell, a wind chime over and over until it became our symphony. Krissa brushed my teeth and helped me to bed, when Mom was far away. She stripped me of my loneliness. I worshiped her, when there was no god in my sight. She carried me when my wings had been broken by turbulence. During the worst times, I lived in her shadow, I swam in her glory. I was young, we were 8 years apart. Her face, I was so lucky to experience. Our mother never knew. She traded places with Ancient Emperors, Medieval Queens. Addiction runs in the family. She traveled in the waves of time, played with her sanity, Oh how she toyed with reality I watched her roll around on the ground, screaming and laughing. I watched her crush pills and inject herself with weird, forbidden fluids, she did every drug a man could offer, but never once would she let me have a turn, saying: “I’d thank her later”. Thank you Krissa. 

Her face, I was lucky to have, grateful to wear, a picture that is now somewhat dusty but the first possession I'd take to the grave. Krissa, why did you hurt yourself so badly? I had to sit back and watch her face decay, the spirit leaked away and puddled all around us. It sunk into the carpet and turned the floors into something slippery.  Every Night I had no way of helping, she’d employed herself to be my mother, when the real one was too scared. You were too young for that, Krissa. She never put herself first. She slept over in my room, but she wouldn't stop shaking, her finger going blue, her eyes were something formidable. I helped her to bed, passed out on her chest, my tears soaking her dress, by morning she tipped over the edge-  but she never landed. I held her tight even when they came to take her away, I screamed, they had to tear us apart Krissa, I was scared without a face. They told me some people can’t be fixed, not if they don't want help. Why didn't you want help, Krissa? Over the years her face recollected jarred into a memory, I hold religiously. Her face is one that never ages. Her face we once shared. Finding my own took centuries. Similar to hers but only mine. But her face, I was lucky to experience.