THE ELDERS COULD NO LONGER REMEMBER ALL THE THINGS OUR PEOPLE USED TO KNOW.
THE THINGS THAT SURVIVE DEATH SanĂŠ Dube I looked into the mirror and saw my twin sister's ghost dancing on my face four months after she died. We didn't share a face, but I could see her in mine, she could see me in hers. I'd taught my eyes to focus on anything but the reflection staring back in mirrors. That day, I was careless. When I looked up, her ghost danced on my lips and my cheekbones, reminding me some bonds survive death. She had died on a cold day in November,
on the same day we'd come into the world thirty-two years before. Most come alone; we didn't. I came first, Sam ten minutes later. Dying, though, was a solitary affair. I was 2,000 km away when the call came. She was still warm to the touch when they found her; life left her body slowly. Phone calls, flights, and tears shed in waiting rooms followed. Later, I stood beside the casket and held her cold hand. Hoping it wasn't too late, I
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