I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. I listen to Dad concoct his tea in the kitchen. Red rose with half a teaspoon of milk. I can direct him from counter to counter. Before he sneezes I whisper, “Bless you.”
Two sisters, still sleep. Jackie, a sprawling starfish, blond hair splayed. Cassie, buried beneath covers, snoring and dreaming of red-eyed seagulls.
I am awake, always awake. I rise early.
Where is my mother? Ahh, the missing figure. “Tragic and magic” she would mutter, disapprovingly. She could be running in place or painting a landscape or crouched beneath a closet shelf sipping chardonnay.
My family. My makeup. My insides.
If I were a fourth sister and describing myself I would write:
And the oldest is awake, always awake, writing in her room. I can hear her sighing softly through the wall. The occasional thump of pen against paper. She will appear in a minute and say, “Good morning, lovely girl, good morning—I just woke up.” But I know she has been up for hours.
And then I kiss my youngest sister’s cheeks and say, “You don’t exist, which is just as well.”
To think I nearly missed it all.
Title quote from Franz Wright’s poem Admission