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Memoirs of a sister
The year was 1984.
I was inside the family car - a two door Toyota that my father repainted from blue green to Popsicle orange. My father has that talent - to give old cars new characters. He paints them over, puts the necessary accoutrement's as if he's trying to make the car a symbol of his life. A life he wants to change - a life he never really wanted.
My mother sits on her designated spot. The passenger side in front of the car. Even now, I still can't seem to be comfortable in that spot in the car - in any car, even if my mother now drives. She sits there, looking out the window with her hair going in all directions, whipping her face. This is the longest she's grown her hair and she doesn't seem to mind that the wind is making her hair whip her face so savagely. Perhaps it's because of my father's noticeably faster driving, like he can't wait to get to where we're going.
I thought I saw my father glancing at my mother occasionally. But he wasn't glancing at her. He was looking at something on her lap. A white size six shoebox. That's when I remembered why there's so much tension in the car.
***
I'm trying to remember now the details but I can't. All I'm getting are bits and pieces that if you put together, does not make any sense at all.
I remember my mother in the den, with a spaghetti strapped blue gingham summer dress, eating turnips and fanning herself. I thought she looked beautiful. The baby bump complimented her very well.
I remember her on the sofa of our house in the province, asking me to go to the market to get her favorite fish crackers.
I remember her pain when I came back. She told me to look for my father as it was time. I remember being confused. I don't know where my father was.
I remember her in the hospital, being rushed to the delivery room.
I remember the big window at the nursery.
I remember seeing this beautiful baby girl with brown tufts of hair and the reddest lips ever.
and then, I remember that car trip.
***
That was my sister in the box. She was 7 months premature. She had issues with her heart and didn't last 7 hours. We were so poor at that time that we couldn't even afford a decent casket for her. I still feel guilty about that.
The year was 1984. I had a sister. I have a sister. She will always be my sister.
I miss you sissy...
I was inside the family car - a two door Toyota that my father repainted from blue green to Popsicle orange. My father has that talent - to give old cars new characters. He paints them over, puts the necessary accoutrement's as if he's trying to make the car a symbol of his life. A life he wants to change - a life he never really wanted.
My mother sits on her designated spot. The passenger side in front of the car. Even now, I still can't seem to be comfortable in that spot in the car - in any car, even if my mother now drives. She sits there, looking out the window with her hair going in all directions, whipping her face. This is the longest she's grown her hair and she doesn't seem to mind that the wind is making her hair whip her face so savagely. Perhaps it's because of my father's noticeably faster driving, like he can't wait to get to where we're going.
I thought I saw my father glancing at my mother occasionally. But he wasn't glancing at her. He was looking at something on her lap. A white size six shoebox. That's when I remembered why there's so much tension in the car.
***
I'm trying to remember now the details but I can't. All I'm getting are bits and pieces that if you put together, does not make any sense at all.
I remember my mother in the den, with a spaghetti strapped blue gingham summer dress, eating turnips and fanning herself. I thought she looked beautiful. The baby bump complimented her very well.
I remember her on the sofa of our house in the province, asking me to go to the market to get her favorite fish crackers.
I remember her pain when I came back. She told me to look for my father as it was time. I remember being confused. I don't know where my father was.
I remember her in the hospital, being rushed to the delivery room.
I remember the big window at the nursery.
I remember seeing this beautiful baby girl with brown tufts of hair and the reddest lips ever.
and then, I remember that car trip.
***
That was my sister in the box. She was 7 months premature. She had issues with her heart and didn't last 7 hours. We were so poor at that time that we couldn't even afford a decent casket for her. I still feel guilty about that.
The year was 1984. I had a sister. I have a sister. She will always be my sister.
I miss you sissy...
