Every October 14th, my sister calls and says the same thing. 'Happy kidney day.'
Seven years now. My scar is just a pale line. Hers too, though I've never actually seen it.
She gave me that green parka first, years before the kidney. One size too big on her, two on me. I wore it anyway all winter, swimming in it, waiting for surgery.
I keep thinking about the night the power came back on when we were kids. The whole neighborhood dark for hours. Then the lights flickered once and stayed. She grabbed my hand and said, 'See? It always comes back.'
She was talking about electricity. But I think she's always meant more than that.