You are nestled deep inside your half-sister’s lap, and everything glows. She loves you like a hundred mothers because you are about to be five, and she adores the new weight of you. From her record player, the sound of French nuns singing. Her thick too-long hair surrounds your neck like a curtain.
***
She’s driving three thousand miles away to live in Hollywood. She’s won a big award for her acting—a lump of cash and a role in a soap opera.
“Take me.”
The door opens for a sec, and she squeezes out the smoke.
***
She’s locked her door, shutting out the adults, your father—her step-father—so you run around the house twisting your hair into knots, wondering if you can capture what’s left of her in your hands.
“We need to get that mess cut soon,” Dad says.
“Why?”
“Because it’s too long and the ends are damaged, just like your sister’s. That’s not how you want the world to see you.”
***
You circle the braid rug in the living room until you fall over. Your hat falls first, and then the rest of you. “Ouch!” you cry, hoping she’ll fly out of her locked room and save you, pick you up, gather you in her arms and take you away to where the stars are bright.
Instead, she cracks the door and invites you in. Two suitcases guard the door.
You sit on her bed, holding her hand as she tries to teach you to say “moon” in French. “La lune,” she says, eyes feverish. You repeat the word and follow her lips and push out your tongue but she just shakes her head.
“No. Can you hear the difference?”
How many times has she tried to teach you this simple thing, her thick lips protruding hard?
You cry, and then she’s sorry, tickling you under your arms, but you can’t laugh. When she leaves, you know you will get the pronunciation right.
***
The day before she goes, you follow her around like her dog. In the corner of her bedroom, her pickguard glows when the sun strikes it, so ruby red that you want to steal it. Red is your favorite color.
“Je reviendrai,” she says, plucking some of her hair for you. She pulls the strands out by the roots, and you know it hurts. Then, she hands them to you like a Spring bouquet.
Hear Meg Pokrass read her piece.
Meg Pokrass’ recent collections include a hybrid collection co-created with Robert Scotellaro, Breath and Shadow: Six Sentence Stories (MadHat Press), and The First Law of Holes: New and Selected Stories (forthcoming with Dzanc Books). Meg’s work has appeared in The New England Review, Wigleaf, Electric Lit, and elsewhere.