My sister is mobile now. She cannot crawl, but she can drag herself forward on her stomach, like some kind of worm, so that is what she does. She is always happy, laughing and smiling as she discovers the world. Sometimes I feel a strange kind of solidarity with her — we are in this together. Sometimes I want to lock her outside and hope she goes away. I feel guilty because I am not supposed to feel this way. I do not think I love her.
My grandfather dies. I am sad, but in a distant way. I do not really understand what this means. I enjoy going to the shore to visit him and my grandma, playing in the backyard in a small inflatable pool, stealing butterscotch candies from his personal stash in the parlor of my grandparents’ house. He always smiles when he sees me.
When my mom tells me he has passed away, I ask her, “Does that mean we can’t see him anymore?”