by Mitzi McMahon
Sitting at the window, nine-year-old Molly watches the
kids on the playground three stories below. It’s been
months since she’s played. She curls her hand into a
fist and says, “Rock, paper—”
“Wait!” Madelyn squeals. She jumps over the puzzle
spread across the floor, though her short, six-year-old
legs prevent a clean leap. She shakes the tattered
pieces stuck to her bare feet loose and runs to her
sister.
A loud thwack jerks Molly’s attention back into the room
and she knows, without looking, that Madelyn has
tripped, again, over the same stack of books they’ve
had for what seems like forever. She waits until Madelyn
steadies herself then raises her clenched fist. Madelyn
follows suit.
“Rock, paper, scissors,” Molly says. Their arms pump in
tandem and stop at “scissors.” Both fists are closed.
“Rock, paper, scissors,” Molly says, again. This time
when they stop, Madelyn’s pudgy hand is open, palm
side down. Same as Molly’s.
“Stop copying me,” Molly says, giving her sister the
same stern look Mama used to give Daddy, back before
she got sick.
“I’m not. You’re copying me.” Madelyn pushes her
chest out for emphasis.
They try it a third time. “Rock, paper, scissors.” Molly
suppresses a smile then quickly covers Madelyn’s fist
with her own open hand.
Madelyn yanks her hand away though she knows not to
complain. It’s Saturday. Daddy’ll spend all day and
night at the tavern. Someone has to empty Mama’s
bedpan.
# # #
While she thinks the lake is pretty, she is
completely enamored with the Colorado
Rocky Mountains. Her work has appeared in
such places as edifice WRECKED, The
Citizen, NFG, Gator Springs Gazette, Salome
Magazine, The Rockford Review, NOÖ
Journal, PanGaia and elsewhere.
