Do you have a sister?

His sister, well not exactly his sister, more like an aunt who was born after and somehow arrived in his life as though he had known her since childhood, his sister, if you like, though unknown as such to others who were actually of his blood, more like a greek goblin goddess, you know, like those sculpted images that plague the precincts of Cybele in Pessina --she asked as innocently as you please, if I had kept safe the letter she had written me when she was away for school and then away for good because someone, not me, had lied to her and had left her an orphan. Her question prodded another, Do you have a sister or not? And the answer was right there in that letter, along with a litany of liaisons, assignations and other matings and musings, a letter of letters, depending on how you multiply the readings, that I had in fact saved into my present old age through what seemed now like epochs of history but were actually no more than a boy who had withered away into adolescence, died and reborn again as a New Man, who in turn withered away, and now crept along on three feet, soon to be four – the answer was that every man had a sister whether he knew it or not and so every woman a brother.  That’s what the letter said and that she was my sister whether I liked it or not, whether I loved her or not, and that If she were an orphan, then so was I. But, you ask, is there, was there, such a letter? Here. Read it for yourself.