Sometimes I party with my sister.

I put on some reggae music. Her kind of music. I insist on Queen Omega. I love her. Little sister approves.

I pour myself a glass of rum. The rum. The birthday present. The last one. There’s just a little bit left in the bottle. One more drink. Maybe two.

I dance, letting the rhythm flow through me and settling in my hips. I smile. She smiles back, dancing beside me. She is so present in my mind’s eye, just out of reach.

I've decided to finish the bottle. Well, maybe not today. But I can finish it. She is gone. Holding onto that particular bottle of rum won’t bring her back.

Why does finishing it feel like a final goodbye? Like a betrayal, even. I've kept it for seven years. She's not in there.

I shove the bottle to the very back of the shelf, behind four other kinds of rum and a bottle of Martini I have no idea what to do with.

Keep dancing. Just keep dancing and smiling, and keep the party going for as long as possible. Until she fades, and it’s only me in my head again.