My childhood. A laugh. A bad memory. 
Why do I remember it differently? 
My sister talks about the hot sunny days we had together, the sandy, dirty, muddy days. 
She's mad I don’t remember. I wonder why I can't. 
I see our dark room, the quiet car rides, 
the messy floor, the dirty bathroom.  
She sees the presents under the tree, 
the lights wrapping it.  
Wrapping her, swallowing me. 
Why can't I see? 
I remember the stained porch.  
The neighbors dogs that had a taste for blood. 
The crud on the door knob. 
She remembers our tall trees, our cold swimming pool.  
Burned in my brain, the fire on the hill. Black smoke filling my sky. 
She looks for ladybugs on leaves.  
But we both grieve.  
She runs from the bees. 
She dances to the music in circles in our living room.  
Her little body next to the big t.v. 
I see the closed blinds. The shadows on my sister.  
My bloody blister. Never went away. 
Grass stains on our jeans. 
My little sister.