Dennis Norris II
Joanne wore a pink circle skirt and a ribbon in her hair the day her sister disappeared. She was proud of that skirt, proud that it came all the way from the sixties, dusty but intact in a plastic bag from the attic—booty from a weekend of endlessly ungrateful household chores. Lindy was her sister’s name. Inflated, blown-up, full of air. She made Joanne nervous. Her eyes were dusty, plastic, ungrateful.
Lindy was six. Lindy was unafraid.
But Joanne was nervous in the attic, nervous as she disappeared in her chores. They were endless, a circle. At six, Lindy skirted chores. All weekend Joanne was in the attic. All weekend Lindy stared. Her eyes made Joanne nervous. Lindy gloated, blew herself up.
She was proud. She was a chore.
The endless weekend ended, and Lindy disappeared. Joanne wore a pink circle skirt and a ribbon in her hair. She was proud that she had deflated Lindy in the attic, in a plastic bag, her dusty pink eyes intact no more.