Day of Chicken Pox by erica halliman
I am three in the photograph. My sister and I sit outside our house in Florida on the canal. We wear bright blue plaid shorts and eyelet ruffles my mother sews for us. Red itchy spots cover our young skin from head to toe. I am jubilant. She is home from school for fear to spread the pox. I play with her all day. My mother wraps our small fingers in oven mitts.
She shares her room with me and her trundle bed. She takes the top bunk and I the bottom. When I am sick she stays up with me. We break the rules, together. I get back my partner of the ninja trail. Down by the alligators, march along murky waters where small pets disappear. It is dark and clammy under sea grape leaves, my sister is with me.
Cloth imprisons my hands she scratches spots that irritate my skin. School is back in session I crane my neck to look out the window, pale blue sky, dull shades of green grass, a distant solitary sun.
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