Forgiven...

I argued that you couldn't get hung up about guilt or responsibility for what had already happened. That what mattered was the moment, who you were now, how you lived in this place, at this time. 

      Sue Miller, While I was Gone

Rain.

It was 2:30 when I turned the final page of my latest read

A book I devoured cover to cover for sleep wouldn’t come

Wrapped in blankets and clinging to my stuffed tiger

I laid on my back listening to the sounds of the night

My window rattled from the wind’s strong and weary song

A warning of the storm quickly approaching

A homeless man rummaged through the dumpster in our back alley

Searching for bottles

The equivalent of change

                                         The only form such a man will ever know

Sometime during the early morning I dozed off

And woke to the anticipated rain pouring down

I rose with a sleepy smile and stepped into my clothes 

Eager to venture outdoors into this seasonal weather

As I ambled through my favorite of nature’s miracles

Accumulated raindrops soaked through the torn soles of my shoes

            With wet socks and cold toes I headed toward the library

                        There stood a man taking refuge inside a black trash bag

                                    A homeless man – perhaps the one from last night

            From the warmth of my car I looked on and shivered

But I lack an understanding of what real freezing feels like

                                        Indoors and piled under a mountain of fleece

                                                Layered in cotton until my skin disappeared 

                                                            Comfortable. Secure.

Today I cherish the rain a little less. 

                                               

Triscuit.

Although taking place before this albino monster even existed, one of my earliest memories naturally holds my pretty little sister at it's very core. 

I am 3 1/2 sitting at my mother's feet as my father breaks the news that we will soon have a baby sister joining our family. At such a young age I was ignorant of his bewildered happiness and the underlying worry in his voice. But to get us excited about this new addition to our family (a little girl who would soon invade my bedroom, my closet, and my life as I knew it) my mother suggested we throw out possible names for said baby. After patiently listening to my brothers, 2 and 3 years my senior, suggest the names of their grade school crushes I saw my opportunity and declared with confidence, "How about we name her Triscuit?" 

Yes, like the cracker. 

To my disappointment my parents didn't name their little gem Triscuit. 

She was christened Morgan Elizabeth, but I prefer to call her Margo, among other things.

For the first 6 years of her coherent life my brothers and I had Margo convinced she was adopted. 

Cruel? Maybe. 

But she was such an easy target. 

Her blonde hair and pale skin resembled no one of immediate relation causing her to stick out like a sore thumb. 

And by replacing me as the youngest she has fared far worse forms of torture. 

Blankets thrown over her head during games of Blind Man's Bluff. 

Jump ropes tied around her neck to imitate a puppy on a leash. 

I once locked in her a suitcase and wheeled her throughout our house for fun. 

And although I have no recollection of ever doing so, she swears on her life that I put her in the oven.
(This is entirely possible considering we used to play witches and make potions out of crumpled leaves). 

I may have grown up picking on my little sister, using her as my scapegoat, and cursing her for being the taller, thinner, and cuter one, but I cannot possibly image a life without her.

Because we shared a room for 11 long years and when we finally moved to a bigger house, where she was granted her own bedroom, she dragged her mattress through our joint bathroom and slept on my floor for an entire week.
Because she never fails to answer her phone when I call her crying at 2:30 in the morning because I consumed too much tequila and therefore hate everyone who has recently crossed my path.
And because she sang The Rocket Summer's Brat Pack out my car window at the top of her lungs and survived the hellish ordeal of high school cheerleading with me. 

Love you Baby Sister.




Post. Script -- Drunk Margo likes to play limbo with herself. Yes, with herself and not by herself. She uses her arm as a limbo stick and attempts to crab crawl under it.