at ten, i make my my little sister sit through hours of “school.” she and i on the back porch, on a single easel blackboard, going over my bad understanding of fractions.
you need to pay attention to this stuff, i say. it’s important.
i miss the age for american girl dolls - something about their eyes freak me out - but on a trip to new york, we wander in the store together, letting her pick out just-the-right-one. cell phones aren’t popular yet. she follows me while we touch each little dress.
she makes me do her english homework, but i steal all of her sweaters.
both of us come home from college at the same time. we leave our stuff in the front hall. we have bought the same shirt without realizing it. we are waiting for a series of pies to be done and haven’t seen each other in a month. we sit in a corner of the house on her dying laptop, watching mad max: fury road until three in the morning.
at twenty-three, a boy punches me in the stomach. the next weekend, when she comes for a party, she hunts him down, crosses her arms over her chest. she is taller than i am, taller than he is. i heard you like hitting girls, she says. i heard you hit my sister. he is flabbergasted. i am cackling.
usually, during october, we would be watching our movie together, planning halloween. we have a family tradition of overzealous addiction to the pageantry.
i type up a confession - i wasn’t good to you, always. i lost my mind for a long time, and you are a lot of the reason i got it back. i didn’t treat you right. it was probably hard for a while, having me in your life.
i delete it before i hit send. i send a meme instead. i don’t think i need to say. we share the same tattoo.
i am prone to fainting. she catches me before i realize i’m falling. she holds my hand before i go in to the hospital.
i hold her back. she doesn’t need to tell me, either. i pay attention.
after all, it’s important.
