Sisters in Seven Stanzas

Stanza 1

I grew up in a house with nothing on the walls. No photographs. No mirrors. Not even a calendar. Bare. The walls had not been painted in fifty years. It's still there. The house is still there. My sister and I have both moved out, but my mother and father are still there. Still married. 44 years. Still arguing. The only things you’ll see on those walls is dirt: the stains we made with cheese curl fingers or the blood of a skinned knee. We weren't going to clean them and neither were they. My father is a writer. In a very small circle of university professors, he is famous. He writes about philosophy. He writes the history of philosophy. I wouldn't know a damn thing about his writing because it's not something he ever spoke about in the house. Even if he wanted to share, when would he get a chance to speak? My mother is not a philosopher. She's a gossip. She's a loud mouth. She's a yente. In all the years that I've been alive, I don't think I've ever seen my mother stop talking for more than 10 minutes. I know she talks in her sleep. I've heard it. I used to press my ear to the wall, and I heard her speaking. Gibberish. Yelling at my sister. Warning her. Punishing my sister while my mother was fast asleep. My sister was the oldest and she came out full of trouble. Apparently, she was born sideways. I don't know if that’s true, but I like to think that's what happened. That's why my mother can't leave her alone. I think she's mad at her because her birth was so damn painful. Me? I came out like a wet bar of soap. I shot out and the doctor barely caught me. My mother says I flew through the air. Again, I don't know if that's true. It's just the mythology of me and my sister. There's a lot to it by the way. We are each two very different people. Of course, my father wouldn’t know about the myth. He would never be able to write a book about it because he doesn’t know much about either one of us. How could he know me? He stopped listening to my mother years ago even though she is clearly the definitive authority on everything that is me or my sister. It's not so bad. It's easy for me. The story my mother tells about me is a good story. And it should be a good story. I was a good girl. I did a lot of things right. I had a lot of talents at a young age. I was recognized for my talent. I could have been one of my father's philosophers. I never stepped into the same river twice. I know that there's no exit in hell. And even though I wasn't a gadfly, I could see that my sister was. She made so much trouble. My pathway through childhood was so different from hers. In some ways I think my parents were lucky. They got to experience the full spectrum of parenting having just the two of us. I lived a lot of lifetimes between the ages of 3 and 17. I was an accomplished ballerina. I danced the Nutcracker with the local school for the performing arts. Sugar Plum Fairy at the age of 13. I wasn't a student there, but I was a heck of a good dancer. I can still stand en pointe in my tennis shoes. I wrote a novel when I was 15. It was published. It became the first of a series. I didn't even use my father's name. I got it published all on my own. Two publishing houses got into a bidding war. In the end, I went with Random House. I became the student council president and was able to convince the principal that we should have multi-gender bathrooms. I don't think there was a trans person at my school. I just did it because it was the right thing. And because I could. I probably could have convinced the principal to ban football. I thought about it, but I was dating a football player at the time. I figured that would ruin the relationship. He was a good kisser. (I'm a great kisser, by the way.) I got all A’s at school. I took the hardest classes. I could have graduated a year early but I was asked to teach a class on Modern Art at the local college. It was a good opportunity even though I was only 17. I actually liked the class a lot. I taught the art teacher a thing or two. (Truthfully, I think I taught her more than a “thing or two.”) I also designed several prom dresses. I wasn't going to charge money, but the parents insisted. And from word of mouth, a buyer at Barney's in New York fell in love with my designs. I have a line of prom dresses and evening gowns that are sold in New York in many different boutiques and specialty shops (as well as Barney's). “Teen to teen.” It's a nice source of income. My parents don't make much money. They don't pay writers who write about philosophy a lot of money. My father never cared about money, but my mother did. She racked up an enormous debt. I offered to help pay it, but she refused to let me help her. It's only for my sister that she asked me for help, but I don't give any money to my sister. Ever. Why should I? She hurt my mother when she was born, and she pushed me down a lot when we were little. To be honest I could have kicked her ass. I was much more agile and stronger, but I didn't fight her. She's my big sister, and that's what big sisters are supposed to do. I know. Really though, it should be a crime. I wrote my second book about that. I hated her for bullying me. My sister became an alcoholic in the eighth grade. And she had a drug habit. She drank in high school. Literally in the school building. She put vodka in her thermos and mixed it with Hawaiian Punch. She'd be blacked out by 7th period. We were actually in the same class. She was a senior and I was a freshman. It was calculus. She would always ask me “what happened in class?” I would always tell her the same thing: "nothing."

Stanza 2

It's 20 years later and really it's all the same. My sister got sober, but she learned to love gambling. She stopped taking the hard drugs. She'd rather spend her money at the racetrack. She was always the only woman gambling with the derelicts. I didn't really care. It's her life. It's just amazing how different we are. (Sometimes we look at each other and say “Do I know you? Have we met before?”) My gowns and prom dresses are still selling out, but that experience made me hungry to keep creating. And that's what I do now. I design people's interiors. I can't do a damn thing about the outside, though. Sometimes I get hired to work on a home that is a mess from the outside. These clients always beg me to help with the outside of their houses, and I always tell him the same thing. “No. Where is the key?” But once I get inside I perform miracles. I am a therapist as a designer. I can design a living room or a bedroom or a kitchen so that the people who live there will feel better about their lives. It nourishes them. If they hate, they won't hate so much anymore. If they've suffered, their suffering won't seem so bad. It's a talent I have. I have so many talents. I’m sure I mentioned that. The one thing I don't have that my sister has is a family. I didn't want one. It seems awkward. A waste of time to be honest. My family wasn't so wonderful. Why would I think that I could make anything better? Besides, it terrifies me that maybe the baby will come out of me sideways. Maybe that's a genetic thing. I'm smart enough to know that it's probably not possible, but I still cling to these childish notions. In fact I cling to a lot of childish notions. It could be argued that I'm still a child. I'm still the same “kid” I was between ages 3 and 17. I stopped growing at 12, and I still have a lot of the same clothes that I had in high school (even middle school). I had good taste in clothes. I made my own. When I show up for a meeting with a potential client, they're always surprised that a “teenager” is going to be their new designer. I’m 37, but I do look young. And short. Not like my sister. My sister looks like something that's been chewed up and spit out because it's not edible. She's TALL but not very good looking. I'm cute. She tells me I’d make a great jockey. She would know. I think I'm pretty. I'm certainly not hurting for suitors. Men are always interested in me. I date a lot. My sister has a boyfriend. They've been together for years. He's the father of their three children. My nephews: one, two and three. (who can keep track of names?). Three boys. Her boyfriend is a truck driver. He's been a truck driver the entire time I've known him. Truck driving might not be an admirable career, but it's admirable to me when somebody does the same job for a long time. I can't say that I've done that. I've switched jobs. Many times. I was once a state council woman. A hand model. A choreographer for The Knick City Dancers. (I didn't keep that job long. Those girls can't dance. Drove me crazy.) But my brother-in-law / not brother-in-law drives his truck from one side of the country all the way across to the other side. And then he comes back. He does it all the time. Sometimes all five of them go on the road. He's got one of those cabins that has a bed in it. When the kids were little they would all sleep in that cabin. But now that they're older they stop and stay at hotels. Waste of money if you ask me. I mean what they're spending on the hotels she could be saving to take to the track. I didn't mention it yet, but she's actually a very good handicapper. (“I pick the ponies!”) Ugh. In fact she's turned it into a career. She works for one of those TV stations that is connected to a track. Saratoga, I think. And she stands there and gives her picks before each race. Somebody thinks she's an “authority.” (Who would ever have seen that coming? Not me!) I went to the track with her one time and she won a lot of money for me. She told me how to bet. I didn't pay attention to her at first but then I started to notice the pattern of winning and I thought I'd like to be a part of that. I don't need the money, but I love winning money. Winning is exciting. You can win a dime and it feels good but it feels a lot better to win $1,000. And on that day when I was with her I won $2,432.56. I started with 100. She did it. She turned it into all that money. When there's a big race she gets dressed up. She wears a fancy hat. I've offered to make her a hat, but she never takes me up on it. I Every time she wears one of those fancy hats, I think how much better she would look if I made it for her. But she doesn't want my hat. I hate her.

Stanza 3

I have always hated her. Every time she pushed me down I would tell mom. I was that kind of sister. And she was always in trouble because of it. I used to think about what would happen if I just let her push me down. Or maybe if I stood up and pushed back. It's hard to say. If you asked her it would be easy to say. She would tell you that she pushed me because she wanted me to push back. She didn't want me to be weak. I don't think I was weak. I didn't do drugs or abuse alcohol. Well not much. I mean just enough to make me feel comfortable having sex. I don't need it anymore. I don't have sex anymore. She was so aggressive with me when we were kids. In her teen years she got even tougher with me. The punishments happened more frequently. One time I was getting up off the ground, heading to our mother in her bedroom when my sister screamed at me, “Fight back!” I don't know why she snapped like that, but I have my suspicions. I keep them to myself. But she was much scarier to me when she was 16 and I was 12. I remember the day it shifted. It wasn’t love for me or my protection that drove her, but she claimed that it was. That’s a terrible way to show love.

Stanzas 4

I like being the most important person in our family. If I let myself think about what probably happened to my sister, she would become the most important daughter. Because she would be the victim. And the victims are always the most important. At least in all the books I have ever written. She would reject any talk of being a victim. Poor sis. She’s not married (although the two act like they love each other), and she has three kids (admittedly they are adorable. Her kids don’t push each other down.) She stands there with that microphone in front of the horses that circle the paddock. Such a limited life.

Stanzas 5

She doesn’t push me down anymore.

Stanza 6

I wish she would because now I would kick her ass. And it would be

all her fault.

She made me

tough alright. And I didn’t return the favor. Maybe

if I had been tougher on her,

she would have known how to fight back.

Stanza 7

Why am I crying? Over my sister?

I hate her.

I hope she’s happy. I'm afraid she is. Am I too old

to push her down now?

Am I too old to be happy?

I can’t out-do her. She beat me. Literally and figuratively. I should have stopped and told her I hated

her instead of being such

a little

snitch.

Around and around like horses we raced,

But she’s got me by 31 lengths.

I’m no jockey.

Fuck that. And fuck her stooopid hats!

Crossing the country with the people she loves.

Round and round.

Over and over.

Never once stopping to see my pain

or the knees I scraped

running up the stairs, trying to escape her fists,

over and over,

forever.