Sarah Was Sixteen

Sarah is sixteen and she is known for slamming her curse words and petite body into empty bathroom stalls, and eagerly, and always telling me about her many boyfriends. She throws back cigarette smoke like long lost wishes. I am eight-years-old, and it is late Friday night when she comes home smelling like cheap cologne and red wine. She stumbles into our bedroom, wrapping her arms around my tiny torso. “I just need a hug,” is all she says. Her lips are chapped, one eye is swollen, there is blood on her sweater, and soon she is sobbing. I am as small as a prayer, as she wraps herself around me, tightening, like she wants to disappear in the folds of my gown. She falls asleep on my lap, as I sing her the only lullaby I know. Sarah is thirty and I am twenty-two. She dismisses it all with a wave of her hand. A cigarette hangs limp from her fingertips. "You probably don't even remember that night..." is all she says. I let her believe what she wants, knowing it's her plea to forget, but I still note the sadness in her eyes.