Siblings, 1972

My sister was a ghost figures in pastel, swimming with the shoals in a plastic wading pool. My mother celebrated her primitive nature, that tempestuous spirit, while I bit my lips to draw blood. I balanced on the sawhorse in our narrow backyard, topography of cracked cement, taut clotheslines tethered to ancient and rusting poles and a salvaged swing set that lifted out of the ground when we swung. Get down! My mother yelled, while I teetered on the legs like stilts, the bravest we all knew I would ever be. My brother, out of necessity, engaged in adaptive behavior, biting his nails to nubs, his freeze dried heart priming to step over the some imaginary threshold. A temporary residence, perhaps, but one we would all dip our toe into eventually: dangerous resilience from the nagging recommendations that would haunt us because they sounded like commands. If we could find it, we knew there was a blueprint to help us live, but only if we didn’t take it to heart.

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