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"The Elder Sister"
When I look at my elder sister now I think how she had to go first, down through the birth canal, to force her way head-first through the tiny channel, the pressure of Mother's muscles on her brain, the tight walls scraping her skin. Her face is still narrow from it, the long hollow cheeks of a Crusader on a tomb, and her inky eyes have the look of someone who has been in prison a long time and knows they can send her back. I look at her body and think how her breasts were the first to rise, slowly, like swans on a pond. By the time mine came along, they were just two more birds on the flock, and when the hair rose on the white mound of her flesh, like threads of water out of the ground, it was the first time, but when mine came they new about it. I used to think only in terms of her harshness, sitting and pissing on me in bed, but now I see I had her before me always like a shield. I look at her wrinkles, her clenched jaws, her frown-lines—I see they are the dents on my shield, the blows that did not reach me. She protected me, not as a mother protects a child, with love, but as a hostage protects the one who makes her escape as I made my escape, with my sister's body held in front of me.
—Sharon Olds
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