Her hair worn down to her shoulders softens her. The two of them are sitting on the living room couch.
It was Rose's face that brought back the frightening memories.
She was two people to me, and I never had any way of knowing which she would be.
Perhaps she would reveal it to others by a gesture of hand, a raised eyebrow, a frown—
my sister knew the storm warnings, and she would always be out of range whenever my mother's temper flared—but it always caught me unawares.
I would come to her for comforting, and her anger would break over me.
And other times there would be tenderness and holding-close like a warm bath,
and hands stroking my hair and brow, and the words carved above the cathedral of my childhood:
He's like all the other children. He's a good boy.
I see back through the dissolving photograph, myself and father leaning over a bassinet.
He's holding me by the hand and saying, "There she is.
You mustn't touch her because she's very little, but when she gets bigger you'll have a sister to play with."
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