Ruby Marguerite Carlson

Brother / Sister

Ruby Marguerite Carlson

My brother and I were born in a nuclear household A mother, a father A girl and a boy

We were raised in a home where the change of the seasons always smelled the best. The coming of autumn brought pumpkin and spices, Spring is sunshine and cleaning supplies, long missed, Winter is fire and pine, Summer is sweet sweat and dust.

I was the patient reader He, the energetic gamer

We were raised in a house of complaints Of agreeing words with anger beneath them. We were one another’s support And yet we fought, as siblings do Over trivial things

I am the only one who understands He is the only one who understands

Our mother once said to me, on a long trip up a mountain both of us in the back seat of a car beginning to smell of gasoline and mildew, “Zane is more creative because he does not read as much as you do.

8

His ideas are of his own making.” My brother had not yet learned how to read. A decision of his own making.

11, I was He was 8.

We were raised in a home of friends who were family Five of us in total: The Inventor The Story-Teller The Problem-Solver The Hidden Artist The Convincer. A life of our own, a family of our own Far from nuclear far from warfare

To me, it was my world To him, it seemed a side quest

My brother built helicopters out of umbrellas and blankets. I built stories out of plastic dolls and pieces of string Spent time in my room and in my head Feeling the disconnect from the world The pounding of my door “Ruby, come play!” Was always ignored.

He was the inventor, I, the storyteller.

9

We were born into a house of invisible entities My brother saw spirits Angels before he knew the word Ghosts in the doorway Demons in the closet I, ever hopeful saw nothing

I was wishful thinking He was reckless action

We were born into a family of mental pain A lineage of suffering and heartache Look here and see us huddled on the bathroom floor Look here and watch our screams pour from the seams of the house Listen close and hear the voices of the television play late into the night Distraction is the best medicine

He was depression I was anxiety

We were born into a world of contradiction Love where you came from But pain is where you came from Hold yourself close lest you lose it all

My brother was letting go I was holding on too long Both of us were nothing more than ghosts in the doorway

10