where I’m going and what I’m doing, something shitty happens that makes me question everything.” She glanced at him. “I’m such a bad sister. I’m so sorry.”
“You’re not.”
“I exhaust people. I exhaust you. An energy sucker, that’s what Tatagat says. No wonder Mom couldn’t stand me.”
“That’s not true.”
“I’m just like her,” Yasmin said. “I’m going to end up in the psych ward.” She hesitated, tilting her head to wind a short curl around her finger. “You know, I went to see her.”
He swallowed. “When?”
“Well, I’ve been a few times actually.” She looked at him. “Don’t be mad. I wanted to tell you, but Dad thought maybe we shouldn’t.”
He could taste the tears at the back of his throat. He looked out; the city lay flat and grey, the roofs bejewelled with sparkling solar panels. He drew invisible arcs from one roof to another, all the way to the sea.
“She asked about you,” Yasmin said. “You know she misses you, right? She just doesn’t want you to see her like this.”
“Yeah, I know.” Uri fixed his gaze on a woman who was taking laundry down outside her window. The laundry line screeched as she pulled it toward her, the clothes bouncing along.
“It was strange.” Yasmin sipped from her beer. “She was … calm. Too calm. Like she wasn’t mad at me at all.” Tears leapt out of her eyes. “Which was worse. And I looked at her, and I kept thinking: this is where you’re going to end up.”
“You’re not,” Uri said. “And Tatagat is an asshole. A good boyfriend would have stayed and helped you, if you needed help.”
“Oh, sweetie.” For some reason this made Yasmin burst out sobbing. Uri placed a hand on her bony shoulder and rubbed it, then pulled away. Yasmin quickly composed herself, shaking her head as if to dry off the tears. She looked up at him, then out with a distant gaze. “Sometimes people have to help themselves before they can help others,” she said.
It was then that Uri knew that his sister was leaving. Panic dug its fingernails into his heart; he had to stop her. Maybe she’d stay if he thanked her for the book, if he told her that he’d been writing again, that he understood now that poetry was everywhere, even outside their kitchen window, that it was more than just a game. He had always thought real poetry had to be about grand and important things, like the land and the people who died for it. He never knew he could write about the number 61 bus to Tel Aviv, the toddlers’ fingerprints on the windows, the whiff of sea salt and cigarette smoke it had brought from the big city. He wrote about Sima Landau, the taste of mint and chocolate on her lips, the warmth of her breath, the pink smell in her hair. He wrote about skateboarding: on the board he was the captain of a ship, a pilot, a fierce explorer of sleepy suburban streets.
But he knew there was nothing he, or anybody, could do to make her stay. Trying to keep her was as futile as trying to hold water in a tight fist. His sister was going to leave and come back and then leave again. She would become a handwritten note on postcards,a distant voice on the phone, a line in a poem. All he’d have is a series of recycled moments, like this moment in the kitchen, and he could feel it slipping away, seeping into memory, fading into the past, already tinged with nostalgia and longing. Already gone.
He looked at Yasmin, curled into a ball with her knees against her chest, and then at the darkening patch of sky outside the window, the clouds that swirled and eddied, filling up the spaces between the stars, and he said, “The sky looks liquid today.” And Yasmin gazed up at him, her eyes red and brimming, and a smile skirted across her lips. “Like a stirred dirty martini,” she said.
“The moon is drunk,” Uri said. “A lemon wedge floating on top.”
Yasmin’s smile grew. Uri placed his hand over hers and gave it a light squeeze. Neither of them moved or
“You’re not.”
“I exhaust people. I exhaust you. An energy sucker, that’s what Tatagat says. No wonder Mom couldn’t stand me.”
“That’s not true.”
“I’m just like her,” Yasmin said. “I’m going to end up in the psych ward.” She hesitated, tilting her head to wind a short curl around her finger. “You know, I went to see her.”
He swallowed. “When?”
“Well, I’ve been a few times actually.” She looked at him. “Don’t be mad. I wanted to tell you, but Dad thought maybe we shouldn’t.”
He could taste the tears at the back of his throat. He looked out; the city lay flat and grey, the roofs bejewelled with sparkling solar panels. He drew invisible arcs from one roof to another, all the way to the sea.
“She asked about you,” Yasmin said. “You know she misses you, right? She just doesn’t want you to see her like this.”
“Yeah, I know.” Uri fixed his gaze on a woman who was taking laundry down outside her window. The laundry line screeched as she pulled it toward her, the clothes bouncing along.
“It was strange.” Yasmin sipped from her beer. “She was … calm. Too calm. Like she wasn’t mad at me at all.” Tears leapt out of her eyes. “Which was worse. And I looked at her, and I kept thinking: this is where you’re going to end up.”
“You’re not,” Uri said. “And Tatagat is an asshole. A good boyfriend would have stayed and helped you, if you needed help.”
“Oh, sweetie.” For some reason this made Yasmin burst out sobbing. Uri placed a hand on her bony shoulder and rubbed it, then pulled away. Yasmin quickly composed herself, shaking her head as if to dry off the tears. She looked up at him, then out with a distant gaze. “Sometimes people have to help themselves before they can help others,” she said.
It was then that Uri knew that his sister was leaving. Panic dug its fingernails into his heart; he had to stop her. Maybe she’d stay if he thanked her for the book, if he told her that he’d been writing again, that he understood now that poetry was everywhere, even outside their kitchen window, that it was more than just a game. He had always thought real poetry had to be about grand and important things, like the land and the people who died for it. He never knew he could write about the number 61 bus to Tel Aviv, the toddlers’ fingerprints on the windows, the whiff of sea salt and cigarette smoke it had brought from the big city. He wrote about Sima Landau, the taste of mint and chocolate on her lips, the warmth of her breath, the pink smell in her hair. He wrote about skateboarding: on the board he was the captain of a ship, a pilot, a fierce explorer of sleepy suburban streets.
But he knew there was nothing he, or anybody, could do to make her stay. Trying to keep her was as futile as trying to hold water in a tight fist. His sister was going to leave and come back and then leave again. She would become a handwritten note on postcards,a distant voice on the phone, a line in a poem. All he’d have is a series of recycled moments, like this moment in the kitchen, and he could feel it slipping away, seeping into memory, fading into the past, already tinged with nostalgia and longing. Already gone.
He looked at Yasmin, curled into a ball with her knees against her chest, and then at the darkening patch of sky outside the window, the clouds that swirled and eddied, filling up the spaces between the stars, and he said, “The sky looks liquid today.” And Yasmin gazed up at him, her eyes red and brimming, and a smile skirted across her lips. “Like a stirred dirty martini,” she said.
“The moon is drunk,” Uri said. “A lemon wedge floating on top.”
Yasmin’s smile grew. Uri placed his hand over hers and gave it a light squeeze. Neither of them moved or
Similar Books
