Minowa

“Okay, be honest with me, which color do you think works best?”

“I don’t know,” she grumbles, not even looking at the swatches in my hand. 

All my life I’ve had this idea of how perfect everything would be after we left mom. Needless to say, this isn’t what I was expecting.

“Minowa can you at least pretend to care about this?”

She mumbles something angrily under her breath and lays down on her bed.

“I’ll take that as a yes!” I say with fake enthusiasm. Minowa is the kind of person who you’ve gotta be upbeat around. Otherwise, you’ll end up in the exact same state she’s in, complete blah. Most people are afraid of Minowa. Of course, I’m not, but I figure it has something to do with how her big black eyes can burn through you. For someone so small, she sure has a way of making other people feel lesser. 

“I don’t understand why you want to change everything so quickly. We just got here,” she complains as she throws a toy ball up and down.

I understand what she means. We only moved here about a week ago and I’ve already painted almost every room, moved all the furniture around at least twice, and made more trips to the hardware store than I can count. It’ll all be worth it, I keep telling myself. I hope I’m right.

“Well, I don’t understand why you have no interest in making our room look nice,” I counter. She sits up and the sun hits her long pin-straight black hair. She scowls but doesn’t say anything. I take the silence as an opportunity to look around the room again. The walls are a hideous yellow, almost any other color would look better. Our dusty blue beds lay on opposite sides of the room. Our boxes, clothes, and furniture litter the floor. Underneath, the wood is nice and dark, but very obviously scuffed up from years of wear. The windows creak but are functional. The vents on the off-white popcorn ceiling seem to be working fine. The room is small, but with a few of my touches, it will feel like home. 

My sister’s muttering yanks me out of my deep thought, “I do care about the room.”

“Then why don’t you ever help me with it?” I snap unsure of where my anger is coming from. My outburst is probably just a result of sleep deprivation and hunger, but Minowa’s eyes tell me I’ve crossed a line. I’m starting to understand why she scares people...

“Because Kiona,” she drags out my name demeaningly, “You just go, go, go all the time. You never stop and think about anything for one moment!”

Blood rushes to my cheeks, what is she talking about? I always think about stuff before I do it, “At least I don’t lay around all day doing nothing! If this was up to you, nothing would ever get done!” I find myself looking for new meaning in my words. 

“If it was up to me, I wouldn’t make everyone pretend like everything’s okay all the time!” she cries, “All you care about is you and making your life perfect! You’re so focused on lying to yourself that you forget about everyone else. You keep trying to escape mom and end up leaving us all behind. Dad and I are still here Kiona.”

My heart stops. Tears cascade down my cheeks. I have a feeling my sister is right, but I don’t know if I’m strong enough to face it. My voice is shaky, “You’re living in the past, Min. At least I’m trying to create a future.” I turn my stiff body and head for the door. I try to hold in a sob.

“Kiona,” she says softly, “why do we never talk?” 

I turn around. Her head is low and her eyes meet the ground. “We talk,” I defend, although I think I’m trying to convince myself more than her.

“Why don’t we ever talk about her?” She whispers so quietly I almost don’t catch it.

“She was never there for us Min. She wasn’t a good mom,” I breathe uncomfortably, “There’s nothing else to say.”

She looks up, her face is blotchy and her eyes are wet. It reminds me of when I saw her for the first time. She was so small, but mom let me hold her. This was just before she started doing drugs. Back when I could still call her mom and mean it. When I held Minowa, the whole world faded away. I was only four, but I promised myself I would protect her. Looking at her now, I wonder if I kept my promise. 

Affection has always been difficult for me. Even when my mom was sober, she was very distant. She hardly ever hugged or kissed me and I can’t even remember a time when she said she loved me. I know my dad loves me, but he would never say it. He shows it in little ways like when he makes us special meals or when he takes us across the island to our favorite store. Most days, however, he comes home late and only has time to say good night. I know those are the days when he misses her too much, and we remind him too much of her. 

Suddenly, the parallels between our lives hit me like a train. When she chose to do drugs, she forgot about the people who loved her and she hurt us. When I tried to forget her, I ended up hurting the same people. I can’t keep trying to escape. I can’t end up like her. I have to remember, and I can start by keeping my promise.

I walk up to Min and wrap my arms around her. I remember the first time I called her Min. She didn’t like it, but eventually, it grew on her. I was 8, she was 4. She flinches but doesn’t move away. I squeeze a little harder. I remember the time she fell off her bike and scraped her knee. I brought out a cold, damp cloth and said I’m going to put this on and apply pressure okay? she reluctantly agreed. She was 6. She clasps her thin arms around my neck. I remember going to mom's funeral. She couldn’t watch them put mom in the ground so she embraced me and buried her head in my chest. We cried a lot that day. It wasn’t that long ago. I was 17, she was 13.  

“I know I don’t say it as much as I should,” I pull out of the hug and look her right in the eyes, “but I love you.” 

Her body relaxes. She smiles, “I love you too,” and we hug a little tighter.