'Metamorphosis' by Alison Woodhouse

Last night my sister, who is gravely ill, died and her body turned into a hare, a plain, scraggy looking fellow with ears laid flat along his skull but the most beautiful hazel eyes you ever saw. That’s the way it goes, I suppose. She died the night before too and became a great owl with a body the size of a small child and a two metre wingspan. She flew by moonlight and was ravenous but when she saw a small grey mouse running for his life she perched on a branch and watched him scurry away.

The night before that I was in church. I’d forgotten to write my eulogy so I sang the part of the Lord’s Prayer we used to roll our eyes at, forgive us our daily sins, as we forgive those who sin against us. Her coffin was behind me and when she didn’t join in I knew it was empty.

Some nights she doesn’t die. We’re six and eight again, awake long after our mother has turned out the lights; planning our shop, the sweets in the jars, who’s in charge of the till. If it’s the summer holidays we’re up early, making grass houses in the playing field. We take it in turns, one builds the walls whilst the other decides the layout. This depends on whether we’re married and how many children we have or if it’s just the two of us, living together forever. When we can’t agree, she says why don’t we build two houses, side by side? Her house is a warren and there isn’t enough grass left for me. Don’t cry, she says, opening a space in the wall, letting me in.  

Last night my sister, who is gravely ill, died again.