Sidewalking

Side Walking
My sister was nine. I was six.
We were sent to the store for Coca-Cola
My sister carried the green glass bottles carefully
I remember the clink of them as we walked, making up a language all our own
Laughing at the nonsensical sound of the words
Thinking we may fool the housewife walking past into thinking
We were from Russia
Neither of us noticed the cracked hump of pavement on the corner
My sister went down hard; first to her knees then to her belly
Arms splayed out as if she were playing catch, glass crushed beneath her
Coke and blood trickled past the white toes of my Keds
“Get Mother!” she screamed.
I ran fast down twenty-fifth and over the tracks to twenty-forth
Hollering, “Mother, Help!” a full block before I reached the house.
She was sitting on a green chair smoking a Pall Mall
In Bermuda shorts the color of watermelon
I breathed out the fall, the glass, the blood
She looked at me as if I had said, “Nice day today, huh?” and sent me to my room.
It’s funny what you remember
Water from the kitchen tap, the clattering of dishes in the sink
The absence of the opening and closing of doors
No sounds of fumbling through the medicine chest
It took a long time for my sister to come home
She was sent to bed without supper, the cost of the coke subtracted from her allowance
My food stuck in my throat. I pushed green peas around my plate.
“How was your day?” asked my Father
“Not so bad,” she said.

Joy Arnett
October, 2008
Portland, Or