No tears for the night, no tears for the night. Is what I whisper into my little sister’s disarray of hair.
Suddenly aware of just how matted it is, I recommend taking a shower. She looks up at me as if I have just asked her to swim in the cold lick of the ocean. But I get it. It’s been a little over an hour of consoling her from the storm, and she wants to stay dry. Right now, there is water pooling on the overly-lacquered hardwood floor, and both of our socks drip water over the edge of the bunk bed.
I reply to these ten-year-old puppy dog eyes, “Okay, we’ll wash up tomorrow.”
And I laugh to myself thinking of the sand in our beds we’ll wake up to. The laugh dissipates as I hear the wind drum against the sides of the cottage. Then a thud as something on our porch is ripped from its dutiful station, the umbrella. My eyes go wide, but I don’t dare show this to Marie. I glance over and she is, miraculously, unphased. Our parents let us stay on the Cape for a few days, so I’m the closest thing she has to an adult to look up to. If things go wrong, it’s on me. I guess at seventeen I am supposed to be an adult. I drove us there, I recount with some pride, and that two-and-a-half-hour drive was not easy. So I don’t tell her that the storm has probably pulled away any trace of our shoes. Our sneakers, sandals, flipflops. Her favorite flipflops, purple with a little palm tree on the heel. Great.
I wear my emotions on my face to such an extent that it’s comical. My friends can always tell when I’m lying, or upset about a math test, no matter how adamantly I say otherwise.
Marie has embedded herself further under the covers now, her legs curled as to give me some space to sit. And, I never thought I’d say this, but thank God for the popcorn ceiling of this beach house. Because Marie took great joy in picking at all those little bumps and freckles that hover just above the bunk bed, she hasn’t noticed my distress. But I’ll have to tell her tomorrow.
For a rising 5th grader, she sure does go to bed late. My parents don’t know this, but I do. She shares a room with me, and until eleven or so, she is up reading. I don’t think she thinks I see her, washed iridescent from the reading light. Layering dark shadows on her face, shifting with each page turned. She is a dreamer.
I envy her to some extent, she is shielded by the entirety of this situation. And she doesn’t need to worry about hitting her head when she gets up from the bunk bed. She doesn’t notice the pressure riding like air above the unruly waves, for me to keep her safe. I sometimes wish I was held by a big sister. Is that dumb? I’m entering my senior year. I breathe, seeing as I am in for another two hours or so of trying to get her to stay in bed. I feel a sudden desire to be more real with her than I have been. Silence has its grasp on me for a few seconds, but my voice prevails.
“Rie Rie, I’m a little scared,” I say, with some caution.
“You are?” She asks, no longer preoccupied with her popcorn ceiling destruction. She sits herself up from the bed, the fruits of her picking labor collecting in a fold of the bedding.
“Well, yes, you saw those waves. I mean how stupid of me was it to leave the windows open?”
She studies my face.
In a new light, I think.
“I guess the floor got a little more than a sea breeze out of that,” I continue, hardly-joking.
I look over to see Marie’s eyes glued to where the water struck through to the floor. She remains quiet. You’re working backward, Jay, I think to myself.
She wrangles her damp pajama legs out from the sheets, and curls under my arm. I am reluctant to keep going.
“You okay?”
She doesn’t reply right away, just a mumble, but I can feel the air buzz in her throat. At last, “It was scary.”
I echo this with all trueness, “It was scary.” She looks up at me, those seven years between us don’t seem so steep.
Our ears quickly became accustomed to the roaring of the wind. But with new curiosity, I wonder what the world is doing outside of this water-damaged cottage.
My heart is no longer trapped in almost-18.
“We can play in those waves in the morning. They’ll be kinder, and the sun in our eyes.” I say, and she smiles.
Her breath seems to settle with contentment, in her body, and on her face. She is the childlike anticipation of what’s to come. Marie, star of the sea.
I kiss her head and help rearrange the blankets that we had wrapped around in our stress and movement. Now in the bunk below, lined with faint water droplets, I smile.
“I’ll get you some new flip flops tomorrow.”
Suddenly aware of just how matted it is, I recommend taking a shower. She looks up at me as if I have just asked her to swim in the cold lick of the ocean. But I get it. It’s been a little over an hour of consoling her from the storm, and she wants to stay dry. Right now, there is water pooling on the overly-lacquered hardwood floor, and both of our socks drip water over the edge of the bunk bed.
I reply to these ten-year-old puppy dog eyes, “Okay, we’ll wash up tomorrow.”
And I laugh to myself thinking of the sand in our beds we’ll wake up to. The laugh dissipates as I hear the wind drum against the sides of the cottage. Then a thud as something on our porch is ripped from its dutiful station, the umbrella. My eyes go wide, but I don’t dare show this to Marie. I glance over and she is, miraculously, unphased. Our parents let us stay on the Cape for a few days, so I’m the closest thing she has to an adult to look up to. If things go wrong, it’s on me. I guess at seventeen I am supposed to be an adult. I drove us there, I recount with some pride, and that two-and-a-half-hour drive was not easy. So I don’t tell her that the storm has probably pulled away any trace of our shoes. Our sneakers, sandals, flipflops. Her favorite flipflops, purple with a little palm tree on the heel. Great.
I wear my emotions on my face to such an extent that it’s comical. My friends can always tell when I’m lying, or upset about a math test, no matter how adamantly I say otherwise.
Marie has embedded herself further under the covers now, her legs curled as to give me some space to sit. And, I never thought I’d say this, but thank God for the popcorn ceiling of this beach house. Because Marie took great joy in picking at all those little bumps and freckles that hover just above the bunk bed, she hasn’t noticed my distress. But I’ll have to tell her tomorrow.
For a rising 5th grader, she sure does go to bed late. My parents don’t know this, but I do. She shares a room with me, and until eleven or so, she is up reading. I don’t think she thinks I see her, washed iridescent from the reading light. Layering dark shadows on her face, shifting with each page turned. She is a dreamer.
I envy her to some extent, she is shielded by the entirety of this situation. And she doesn’t need to worry about hitting her head when she gets up from the bunk bed. She doesn’t notice the pressure riding like air above the unruly waves, for me to keep her safe. I sometimes wish I was held by a big sister. Is that dumb? I’m entering my senior year. I breathe, seeing as I am in for another two hours or so of trying to get her to stay in bed. I feel a sudden desire to be more real with her than I have been. Silence has its grasp on me for a few seconds, but my voice prevails.
“Rie Rie, I’m a little scared,” I say, with some caution.
“You are?” She asks, no longer preoccupied with her popcorn ceiling destruction. She sits herself up from the bed, the fruits of her picking labor collecting in a fold of the bedding.
“Well, yes, you saw those waves. I mean how stupid of me was it to leave the windows open?”
She studies my face.
In a new light, I think.
“I guess the floor got a little more than a sea breeze out of that,” I continue, hardly-joking.
I look over to see Marie’s eyes glued to where the water struck through to the floor. She remains quiet. You’re working backward, Jay, I think to myself.
She wrangles her damp pajama legs out from the sheets, and curls under my arm. I am reluctant to keep going.
“You okay?”
She doesn’t reply right away, just a mumble, but I can feel the air buzz in her throat. At last, “It was scary.”
I echo this with all trueness, “It was scary.” She looks up at me, those seven years between us don’t seem so steep.
Our ears quickly became accustomed to the roaring of the wind. But with new curiosity, I wonder what the world is doing outside of this water-damaged cottage.
My heart is no longer trapped in almost-18.
“We can play in those waves in the morning. They’ll be kinder, and the sun in our eyes.” I say, and she smiles.
Her breath seems to settle with contentment, in her body, and on her face. She is the childlike anticipation of what’s to come. Marie, star of the sea.
I kiss her head and help rearrange the blankets that we had wrapped around in our stress and movement. Now in the bunk below, lined with faint water droplets, I smile.
“I’ll get you some new flip flops tomorrow.”
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