Metamorphosis

It was “windows down” kind of weather.

I was surprised to see her friendly wave across the street.

She looked both ways, aware of traffic.

When all was clear, she motioned for me to come.

She was driving Dad's car.

I asked her where Dad was.

Why was she picking me up today?

She said she got off work early and was excited to spend the time.

She mentioned Dad was tired.

He'd taken on so much work lately.

I nodded, thinking.

She reminded me to buckle my seatbelt.

She put the car in drive.

I told her it was good to see her.

She said she felt the same.

She offered me some snacks she'd bought at the market only a few blocks away.

I could find them in the backseat.

I tore open a bag of sour cream and onion chips.

I offered her some.

She waved them away.

The hum of nature was so pleasant, neither of us considered connecting to Spotify.

I didn't suggest the usual car games.

She did not offer an audiobook.

Instead, we traded pleasantness and caddy-corner smiles.

The smell of hot pavement and flowers floated through the car.

She pulled down her sun visor.

I told a joke.

It wasn't very clever.

She laughed anyway and attempted one herself.

"What did the cow say to the ostrich?"

I guessed correctly.

She frowned.

She claimed I cheated somehow.

She asked about my day.

I reflected.

I tried to choose only a handful of things to share.

I had a tendency to wander as I spoke.

She congratulated me on my recent promotion.

I told her it was no big deal.

She made a joke.

I laughed.

I put my hand out the window and let the sun toast my fingers.

She asked if I'd used sunscreen.

And then we saw the sirens, we heard a blasting horn.

We pulled over.

“It’s usually red, right? Why is it white?” I asked.

“Not sure,” she said. “It’s weird though. These days it seems like everything is ch-"

We were hit once.

We were hit twice.

Her eyes were closed.

“Are you alright?!” I said.

I gripped her arm.

I searched her face.

She frowned and said, “Yes. I mean, I think so.”

She was not alright.

Her voice resembled old strings nearing their breaking point.

Her mouth made a shape I hadn't seen in a long time.

Was it fear?

Was it disappointment?

Was it outrage?

Was it skepticism?

She studied the rear-view mirror.

She glanced to the left.

To the right.

A man approached our vehicle.

Glass crunched beneath his feet.

His shouts banged against the windshield.

I could not describe him to a sketch artist.

I only had eyes for my sister’s face.

I could sense a shifting, a passing.

As though the light in her was retreating.

Caging itself, maybe, somewhere deep within her soul.

She looked at the man.

She looked at me.

It was the last time we locked eyes as children.