by Micaiah Vinson
Two sisters sat together on a bench near the shore of a small forest river. One held a dark phone, her coily hair in two fresh buns, edges covered by a bright pink bandanna. The other carried a black purse on her shoulder, her hands folded across her shorts, her deep brown eyes behind blue-rimmed glasses. The spring weekend progressed so slowly that it was almost infuriating; the sweltering sun rays found their way through the rustling leaves and set themselves upon the young women.
The woman with the purse spoke. “Maya, it’s hot.”
“Yeah.” Maya checked the time; it was 2:47 in the afternoon.
“Maya.”
“Mmh?”
“We should keep walking.”
Maya set her phone between her legs and leaned back. “Keisha, there’s a huge cloud coming over the sun; we’ll be fine.”
Keisha watched the sky with squinting eyes. A cotton-shaped cloud skated across the sea of blue, inching towards the blinding sun.
“Aye,” she said, “remember when we were little, we would watch the clouds?”
“Oh yeah,” said Maya. The memory came to her faintly: the dew-softened grass baking under the warm sunlight, the drifting clouds and the way they darkened the earth by sneaking in front of the sun.
“When Tony came out,” Keisha said with a poorly masked laugh, “he’d pretend he was gonna kick us.”
The sisters laughed, remembering their older brother (before he’d moved out) and his exaggerated half-kick, remembering chasing him around the yard if it wasn’t too hot and telling him off if it was.
“Aye,” Maya said, “remember when Mom would take us to the beach?”
“Yeah.”
“I remember that one time you was in the water and huge waves came and—” Maya’s laughing cut her sentence off and bent her over. “Your face!”
Keisha smiled dryly.
“You’d take your Legos to the beach,” said Keisha. “Remember when we brought our ukuleles?”
“Remember when we always went to the art museum?” “Oh, remember Windows XP?”
Maya started singing the computer’s startup tune, and Keisha joined in with a discordant hum, and soon their hearty laughs were echoing throughout the trees, breaking the tranquil ambiance of birds and cicadas and whispering leaves and bubbling water.
Their childhood memories came back to each of them, like paper boats passing through the river of their minds.
Maya would stick her head halfway out of the window of her father’s Toyota and let the wind beat against her face. She loved how the only barrier between the vehicle and the outside could simply be rolled down. On the highway, she’d find it thrilling that it was harder to inhale the crisp air. Her father would peek at her goofy grin in the wing mirror and smile, while her mother would shake her head disapprovingly, warning Maya that she could get hit by a bug or, God forbid, a car. Maya ignored her mother’s disapproving gestures until, one humid night, they were going 70 miles per hour and a fly hit her forehead. From then on she’d kept her face inside the car.
Keisha would draw in the mornings with her legs crossed and her sketchbook against the top bunk’s wide, white windowsill. She loved drawing still-life; it was as if she were capturing a single, fleeting moment, like a printer in slow motion. Often, she would draw the trees in her side yard and the houses in the distance, but one winter morning a cardinal perched on a branch almost startlingly near the window, and right then she grew a fascination with sketching animals that progressed into painting with broad strokes and vibrant colors.
Maya remembered the fun she had with friends at her local elementary school. She remembered sharing snacks, hobbies, laughs. Keisha remembered her middle school’s quiet recess. She could only recall a few names in her tiny class of six: Donovan, Shawn, Unique, and... Izzie, perhaps?
They both could remember the long church mornings. The two of them always woke up to gospel music muffled by their closed door and their many blankets. Mom would come in and clap her hands every time, and they would sit up, moaning like sad cows. The night before, they were always told to prepare a humble dress, but sometimes Maya would forget and would shuffle frantically through all her clothes until she came across something she considered fancy. They would be at church from eight in the morning to almost one in the afternoon, praising for hours and talking with members they called family.
Memories flowed through their minds, bringing awe forth, leaving behind a trail of longing pain.
Maya, a college student pursuing a degree in Education and Keisha, attending a prestigious art university, sat together, reminiscing, forgetting momentarily about their work and their loans and their classes upon classes upon classes...
This writing is part of a collection featured in the 2020 Celebrate the Arts Writing Contest, an annual contest hosted by The Arts Council of Westerville, Westerville Public Library and the ThisWeek Westerville News & Public Opinion as one of many events organized by the Arts Council to mark April as “Celebrate the Arts” month in Westerville.
