perching on things
that weren’t green.
The bird flew without coaxing
straight out the door,
heading for the woods,
like it was all a temporary detour
in bird life to see what it might be like
to live in a house
with the two of us.
Ariana collapsed
on the couch
with the blanket.
I plucked a book off the shelf.
“What do you think it says
that the bird chose
to poop on Little Women?” I said.
“It’s still pissed that Amy
ends up with Laurie,” Ariana replied.
I wiped the bird poop off with my sleeve.
Ariana blinked hard at me. She shook her head.
“Gotta love a sister who will wipe up literal shit.”
I shrugged and curled up next to her
on the couch, together reading
the first page, silently
holding our breath, wondering
what it would be like
if someone were to tell a story,
not of four little
white girls from New England,
but of brown girls,
who loved each other fiercely
and of a world
that didn’t get
in their way.
Ariana
Our mother came from an island where it never snowed.
She would have hated this.
“This isn’t natural,” she would have said.
She came from an island where families are traced
through their mothers, grandmothers, aunties, and
great-aunties.
On our mother’s island, women inherited the land.
Women had a final say in governance.
Women defined and shaped and perpetuated the culture.
So when the colonizers came, they were baffled.
What are we supposed to do with an island governed
by women?
In the wars against the colonialists, women survived.
Women held on with power and land and culture in
their fists.
I wonder how our mother would have raised us
as young women. I wonder what she could have taught us
about governance and power, about running a household,
a community, a culture. I think about who she was
before she died. The breadwinner with a fancy corporate job.
Maybe she was trying to show us culture,
through her place in the household with Dad.
But there’s one other thing that women
from the island are supposed to do.
Mothers are supposed to determine
the destiny of their own children.
The place and role children will assume in the future.
But when your mother dies, what happens
to your own destiny?
Who are you supposed to be?
What role are you to assume
if your mother isn’t there to guide you?
Row
I text my sister
wherever she is.
There’s a lot of fricken snow outside.
For ten, then twenty,
then thirty seconds,
Ariana doesn’t respond.
Maybe it’s because I didn’t
ask her a question.
I text her again.
Why aren’t you here?
I really expect her to respond.
I don’t even care what she says.
Just to know that she’s out there
thinking of me.
We’ve been through a lot of crap.
I get it. But I’m still here.
I’m your sister.
The screen starts to dim
like a slow goodbye,
the kind where someone says,
Hey, I’m going now,
before they finally leave.
I want to believe
that she’s going to text back,
but there’s nothing.
While everyone else
is watching their mothers
soar over them like an airplane,
skirting around weather formations,
showing them different routes,
all I have is Ariana,
who doesn’t know how to fly.
I watch my sister approach her future
with the reluctance
of a train conductor,
and while everyone else
is flying around in airplanes,
who is left to use the rails?
It’s me, Ariana.
I’m behind you.
Stuck on this line,
pulled along the same
steel tracks as you.
But if you’re not here, ahead of me,
who am I to follow?
How am I supposed to learn?
Ariana
“I don’t know what to do with you Ariana,”
Ms. Wex said as she sat at her desk, flipping through
a grade book after class a week ago.
“Because you’re technically failing this class.
You were supposed to complete a portfolio,
tied together with a single theme.
Like Rory’s over there.”
Ms. Wex paused, searching for something
more to say about Rory’s work.
“Her theme is supposed to be letters. Like the alphabet,”
I said. I nodded at a cubist-style painting
of an apple and a surrealist take on a boat.
There was a technical quality to each image,
but nothing that screamed out with heart.
“Five original works of art,” Ms. Wex continued.
“That’s what I wrote on the syllabus. You have
produced only one. And the theme?”
Ms. Wex looked at my painting again. Her head tilted,
in the kind of way that said, I don’t really know where my eyes
are supposed to look, and the color is all confusing.
“Grief,” I said. “It’s about grief.”
“Okaaay,” Ms. Wex said, but it came out long and drawn out
and affectless, like she could have been saying
any other word, like “potato” or “suitcase” or “carrot.”
“The school counselor tells me you need
this class to graduate, so I’m giving you a chance
to improve your grade. You won’t get an A,
but at least you won’t fail.”
“I might not graduate?” A lump grew in my throat.
One that felt like it had been growing
since the beginning of senior year,
whenever I thought about things
related to my future.
Ms. Wex didn’t look up or nod or acknowledge my question.
She scribbled on a pad of paper. Her handwriting,
exacting. Each letter angled and pointed.
“There’s a gallery show in the city next Saturday.
A special exhibit for high school students.
I’m offering extra credit for those
who choose to participate.