(HYBRID PROSE)
A GEOGRAPHY OF SISTERS
CEZARIJA ABARTIS
A GEOGRAPHY OF SISTERS
CEZARIJA ABARTIS
We shared a womb. And now we study maps of where we’ve been.
Here is where you pushed me on the ice. After six decades, a blue, eye-shaped mark is still visible on the outside of my knee.
Here is where you lifted me up.
Here is where you threw a stone at me (because I’d thrown a stone at you). We’d argued over whether the photographs of Rome or Paris made it the prettiest city on the planet.
Here is where Grandfather lost his finger repairing the lawn mower. He found it in the grass and carried it to the hospital. They could not sew it back.
Here is where Rocky barked and ran into the street, into a car.
Here is where Misty had her litter.
Here is where Sister Mary Donald coached me for the fifth-grade spelling bee. That year you won the Geography Prize when you answered Rhodesia and pointed to the spot where Zimbabwe is now.
Here is where Dad taught us to drive, the backlot of the old, closed-down A & P.
Here is where we smoked grass and watched The Night of the Living Dead. Nothing dies, you said. Just zombifies.
Here is where I committed a mortal sin. With Jimmy.
Here is where I married Jimmy, where we redeemed ourselves.
Are there any sister gods? Just the Gorgons? Don’t look at me--you’ll be turned to stone. We are two, not three. You said the Muses. You flung your hands out. You are Urania, a star at the school library. You wear your glitter bracelet. I am Clio, recording everything with the Montblanc you gave me.
Here is where we knelt at Mother’s grave.
Here is where you gave birth to your daughter.
Here is where your daughter drove to San Francisco, studied veterinary medicine, and saved small animals.
Here is where my son joined the Navy to save the world.
Here is where we held hands when your husband died.
Here is where you held my hand at my husband’s funeral.
Here is where you married again.
Here is where I never married again.
Here is where we vowed to help each other forever.
Here is where you burned up with pneumonia.
Here is where you recovered.
Here is where you won the Nobel Prize. (Just kidding.)
Here is where I won the Nobel Prize. (Still kidding.)
We celebrated menopause. We toured the Greek islands, ate dolmades, moussaka, baklava, licked honey off our fingertips, called each other goddess.
Here is where we ate doughnuts when we came home.
Here is where we rested.
Here is where the garden is, Eden.
Here is where we have time left, clear wrinkled skin to write on, to make scars.
Here is where . . . .
Here is where you pushed me on the ice. After six decades, a blue, eye-shaped mark is still visible on the outside of my knee.
Here is where you lifted me up.
Here is where you threw a stone at me (because I’d thrown a stone at you). We’d argued over whether the photographs of Rome or Paris made it the prettiest city on the planet.
Here is where Grandfather lost his finger repairing the lawn mower. He found it in the grass and carried it to the hospital. They could not sew it back.
Here is where Rocky barked and ran into the street, into a car.
Here is where Misty had her litter.
Here is where Sister Mary Donald coached me for the fifth-grade spelling bee. That year you won the Geography Prize when you answered Rhodesia and pointed to the spot where Zimbabwe is now.
Here is where Dad taught us to drive, the backlot of the old, closed-down A & P.
Here is where we smoked grass and watched The Night of the Living Dead. Nothing dies, you said. Just zombifies.
Here is where I committed a mortal sin. With Jimmy.
Here is where I married Jimmy, where we redeemed ourselves.
Are there any sister gods? Just the Gorgons? Don’t look at me--you’ll be turned to stone. We are two, not three. You said the Muses. You flung your hands out. You are Urania, a star at the school library. You wear your glitter bracelet. I am Clio, recording everything with the Montblanc you gave me.
Here is where we knelt at Mother’s grave.
Here is where you gave birth to your daughter.
Here is where your daughter drove to San Francisco, studied veterinary medicine, and saved small animals.
Here is where my son joined the Navy to save the world.
Here is where we held hands when your husband died.
Here is where you held my hand at my husband’s funeral.
Here is where you married again.
Here is where I never married again.
Here is where we vowed to help each other forever.
Here is where you burned up with pneumonia.
Here is where you recovered.
Here is where you won the Nobel Prize. (Just kidding.)
Here is where I won the Nobel Prize. (Still kidding.)
We celebrated menopause. We toured the Greek islands, ate dolmades, moussaka, baklava, licked honey off our fingertips, called each other goddess.
Here is where we ate doughnuts when we came home.
Here is where we rested.
Here is where the garden is, Eden.
Here is where we have time left, clear wrinkled skin to write on, to make scars.
Here is where . . . .
Cezarija Abartis has published a collection, Nice Girls and Other Stories (New Rivers Press) and stories in Baltimore Review, Bennington Review, Waccamaw, and New York Tyrant, among others. Recently she completed a crime novel. She lives and writes in Minnesota.
