My SaSa
The latest class of VerbTribe just ended. This week, I will feature on 37days the writing of VerbTribe members in this most recent class. These excerpts are in response to daily prompts the class provides, and I hope you will appreciate the voices of these writers.
If you’re interested in becoming a VerbTribe member, go here for more information on the next class that begins January 3, 2013.
My SaSa
When I was four, I got Rheumatic Fever. At that time, children were kept bed-bound to protect their tiny hearts from fracturing under the weight of illness. I spent nearly a year in bed, with restricted activities for the following five years. During the bed year, my mother taught me to read and write. She offered me books like they were platters filled with gold. They were. They are. But it was during the five years following that illness that my big sister, my SaSa, took me as her own. One Christmas when I was once again sick, she stood outside my bedroom window, shin-high in snow, squeaking through the frozen window that she was Santa’s elf, Spunky. She made me believe. She made me laugh.
My sister took me to the movies every Saturday, with popcorn and Junior Mints. When we got home, we would play “movie” until time for bed. We read to each other. We read silently, side-by-side. We played flashlight under the covers and burnt marshmallows in the fireplace.
Her boyfriends paid me quarters not to tell our parents that they were smooching in the basement. She was the first freshman ever chosen as her school’s Chrysanthemum Queen. She carried beauty in her body. She taught me that straight A’s were more fun than trying cigarettes. She was the center of all my wild spirographic circles. She was SaSa.
Now she is the one who’s sick and we’ve turned tables. We’ve turned leaves and turned ourselves over and shook ourselves across everything we’ve ever done and ever been. We’ve danced. We were salt and light.
One day, maybe even soon, she won’t remember me anymore. She’ll wonder who I am. She’ll be confused by her fork and will fumble through watery, edgeless days. But I’ll remember enough for us both. I’ll remember. She kept my heart safe when I was little. Now I turn that heart toward her.
