Do you remember my sister? How many mistakes did she make with those never blinking eyes? I couldn't work it out. I swear she could read your mind, your life, the depths of your soul at one glance. Maybe she was stripping herself away, saying
"Here I am, this is me
I am yours and everything about me, everything you see...
If only you looked hard enough"
I never could
Our life was a pillow-fight. We'd stand there on the quilt, our hands clenched ready. Her with her milky teeth, so late for her age, and a Stanley knife in her hand. She sliced the tires on my bike and I couldn't forgive her
She went blind at the age of five. We'd stand at the bedroom window and she'd get me to tell her what I saw. I'd describe the houses opposite, the little patch of grass next to the path, the gate with its rotten hinges forever wedged open that Dad was always going to fix. She'd stand there quiet for a moment. I thought she was trying to develop the images in her own head. And then she'd say:
"I can see little twinkly stars
Like Christmas tree lights in faraway windows
Rings of brightly coloured rocks
Floating around orange and mustard planets"
"I can see huge tiger-striped fishes
Chasing tiny blue and yellow dashes
All tails and fins and bubbles"
I'd look at the grey house opposite, and close the curtains
She burned down the house when she was ten. I was away camping with the scouts. The fireman said she'd been smoking in bed - the old story, I thought. The cat and our mum died in the flames, so Dad took us to stay with our aunt in the country. He went back to London to find us a new house. We never saw him again
On her thirteenth birthday she fell down the well in our aunt's garden and broke her head. She'd been drinking heavily. On her recovery her sight returned. "A fluke of nature," everyone said. That's when she said she'd never blink again. I would tell her when she stared at me, with her eyes wide and watery, that they reminded me of the well she fell into. She liked this, it made her laugh
"Here I am, this is me
I am yours and everything about me, everything you see...
If only you looked hard enough"
I never could
Our life was a pillow-fight. We'd stand there on the quilt, our hands clenched ready. Her with her milky teeth, so late for her age, and a Stanley knife in her hand. She sliced the tires on my bike and I couldn't forgive her
She went blind at the age of five. We'd stand at the bedroom window and she'd get me to tell her what I saw. I'd describe the houses opposite, the little patch of grass next to the path, the gate with its rotten hinges forever wedged open that Dad was always going to fix. She'd stand there quiet for a moment. I thought she was trying to develop the images in her own head. And then she'd say:
"I can see little twinkly stars
Like Christmas tree lights in faraway windows
Rings of brightly coloured rocks
Floating around orange and mustard planets"
"I can see huge tiger-striped fishes
Chasing tiny blue and yellow dashes
All tails and fins and bubbles"
I'd look at the grey house opposite, and close the curtains
She burned down the house when she was ten. I was away camping with the scouts. The fireman said she'd been smoking in bed - the old story, I thought. The cat and our mum died in the flames, so Dad took us to stay with our aunt in the country. He went back to London to find us a new house. We never saw him again
On her thirteenth birthday she fell down the well in our aunt's garden and broke her head. She'd been drinking heavily. On her recovery her sight returned. "A fluke of nature," everyone said. That's when she said she'd never blink again. I would tell her when she stared at me, with her eyes wide and watery, that they reminded me of the well she fell into. She liked this, it made her laugh
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