The Call
Do you remember posing on the front steps, cradling your fresh-from-the-hospital baby sister? Eleven-year-old head bent, black hornrims sliding down your nose. A wink smile you keep just for me. I find the curled photo in a shoebox and make a wish.
The Refusal
Do you remember being weary of your tag-along sibling? At eighteen you were ready for new adventures. Souped-up Mustangs and VW Beetles swallowed you and roared into the night. Yet, thumbed paperbacks appeared on my bed. Witches. Dwarves. Hobbits. Magical beasts. I drew intricate maps of places unknown and left them in your room.
The Journey
Do you remember our backpacking trips? Days of you quizzing teenage me on Sierra Nevada flora and fauna. I pressed wildflowers into my journal. Red Columbine and Shasta Lily. Blue Jessica Sticktight and Nose Skullcap. We collected blackberries and currants before foraging became a fashion.
The Trial
Do you remember Daddy’s missteps? While the rest of us worried, you dismissed his crazy driving, nonsense statements, forgetting our names. Even post-diagnosis you refused to acknowledge his change.
The Abyss
Will you remember me? You stumble along the same darkening path. My brother who read a dictionary for amusement, won every trivia quiz. Once you had all the answers, but now only have questions.
The Return (a fragment)
I find you in the herb garden sorting weed from plant. You smile, call my name, greet me with a hard hug. Kneeling in the dirt, we work together. I pluck a velvet leaf, crush it to release the pungent scent and pass it to you. Closed eyes and a frown. I say, ‘Sage.’ You nod. ‘Correct.’
Marie Gethins featured in Winter Papers, Bristol Short Story Prize, Australian Book Review, REED, NFFD Anthologies, Fictive Dream and others. Selected for Best Microfictions, BIFFY50, Best Small Fictions, she is a Hawthornden Fellow, the Banshee flash fiction editor, co-edits for Splonk and lives in Cork, Ireland.