It’s been said you can try to beat your Monday blues as long as they don’t come uninvited to your doorstep, staying for six long days in the shape of your sister. When night fell, we took it upon ourselves to set up a bed in the Hall. A decision we made years ago, after every failed coffee for conflict resolution. It had to be quick. None of us were in good shape, the thick mattress laid heavy on the wooden board, the bedding tucked in haphazardly. The spare slab of sponge was pulled out with the same urgency you would pull a drowning child from the pool. In every way, it was a rescue mission. At lunch she sat with a man, facing me, Mom, and Dad. Her visit was purposeful-she was getting married. Switching seats was the easiest decision I could make. It was strange not to be by her side. Later that night she asked me what I thought of her boyfriend. I didn’t remember the conversation over lunch, only the dread of my life without her. But I didn’t tell her that, or about the older women I had befriended to seek sisterly warmth over the last 273 days while she was gone. The rescue mission was in full force again. I couldn’t speak, but the bed did. It creaked in despair, the frame as unsettled as me. There was a distance between Mumbai & Bengaluru the words couldn’t bridge, but she sent a one-way ticket to her place, she said it can fix all that.