even though
we were just barely old enough
to spend time
alone in our house.
During that month
we learned to cook
ramen. We learned to wash
rice and crack eggs.
We never made our beds
because no one
told us to.
We spent long afternoons
lying on top
of piles of laundry.
We practiced French braids
and ponytails
and detangling
each other’s hair,
and keeping secrets
and sharing secrets
and fearing the worst
and holding hands.
We stayed inside
our rambler in California,
sliding across the tile floor
in our socks,
wandering from room to room,
and sitting on the floor
of Mom’s closet full of clothes
just because we could.
“Don’t leave me,”
I said to Ariana
while underneath
all those clothes,
but I meant something deeper
than me. I meant
don’t let it change
this feeling of us.
This frozen moment
in time when it was
just Ariana and me
and this house
and these shapeless reminders
of Mom.
Ariana held me so tight,
for so long,
that I thought
maybe we could,
we would hold on to this forever.
I know there’s no longer California,
or a month without school,
or a closet full of Mom’s clothes,
but I thought, Ariana,
that we still had us,
to hold on to, forever.
Ariana
Pellets of snow and ice smack me in the face
and the wind blows from every angle.
The butcher paper tears at the corners,
and the canvas underneath begins to poke through.
The package slides out from under my armpit.
I stop and readjust. Shift the painting to my other arm.
Maybe I should have put the whole thing
in a giant trash bag
and hauled it over my shoulder.
It’s not like it’s heavy.
It’s not like it should be hard to carry a painting
in the wind,
protecting it from the snow, trying not to drop it
while walking
to the bus station in a snowstorm.
What would people say about what I am doing?
Would they call it selfish? Desperate? Ill-advised.
A car fishtails at the stoplight ahead. The back wheels
begin to skid, but the driver regains control
and straightens onto the dark street ahead.
It’s way too snowy and way too early for either of us
to be out here on the streets heading somewhere.
But we are.
Because, like snowstorms and earthquakes and death,
your future will happen regardless of whether
you planned for it.
Row
I walked through the door
after practice
on Thursday.
My family stood
in the living room
staring down
at what looked like
a porcelain crime scene.
“That was your mother’s favorite.”
Dad’s hands trembled
as he got down
and picked broken pieces
off the floor.
I tossed aside shin guards
and stripped off socks.
“What’s going on?”
But no one answered.
“Row, I have something
to tell you,”
Maribel started.
She winced
and doubled over.
I froze.
Dad sprang to his feet.
He cooed into Maribel’s ear
and rubbed her back
with such vigor
that the cotton tunic
she wore began to bunch.
I felt the sting
of sliding on artificial turf
run all over my skin.
Ariana just stared
at the pile on the floor.
“Why can’t we have
something good for once?”
“Ariana,” Dad said.
“Please don’t make it worse.”
My sister was
a tangled knot of hair,
the kind you need
scissors to cut out.
“God. The cramps,”
Maribel said,
gritting her teeth,
clutching her side.
The room was large and exposed.
All the lights were on.
I heard them buzzing.
Ariana didn’t even flinch.
I should have
said something to Maribel.
I should have
said something to Ariana.
Put her in check.
But it’s like I couldn’t.
Because Ariana was
sucking all of the courage
and strength
out of the room.
She consumed everything
that might have helped
just by standing there
doing nothing.
The words I might have said.
To Maribel. To let her know
that we were here for her.
We saw her pain.
But I didn’t do anything
because all I could focus on
was my older sister and her
selfish, self-involved pain.
Dad led Maribel
back into the bedroom.
I heard the door close
with a distant click.
“What happened?” I said.
“Nothing,” said Ariana.
She gritted her teeth
and clenched her jaw,
just like Maribel,
trying to fight away pain.
“What happened?” I repeated,
still holding my soccer bag.
Feeling the weight
of the gear on my shoulder.
“I threw one of Mom’s figurines.”
“What happened?”
I said again, firmly this time.
Ariana still didn’t respond,
but I didn’t need her to tell me
anything about what was going on.
I felt it, like the dread
of picking up
an unexpected phone call,
knowing what the person
on the other end
was going to say
but wanting them
to say it anyway.
To make it real.
“It’s the baby, isn’t it?” I said.
Ariana held the broken shards
of a porcelain in her palm.
She closed her hand around it,
and I wondered
if she did this
just to feel
the sharp edges
of pain piercing,
but not breaking, the skin.
We stood there
in front of the couch
where just yesterday
we marathoned a show