by Wendy J. Fox
In the tiny house they lived in, Kathleen’s three sisters were all older than she was, her three brothers all younger; she was a middle child by chronology but also the last of the girls, the elder to the small boys. Her brother Sammy was the closest in age, just eleven months apart. As children, they were always together, grubby hands clasped, with the two other brothers padding behind. When Kathleen’s sisters were rouging their cheeks and stealing cigarettes, she was in the trees, in a pair of hand-me-down jeans, hair tangled, hands scraped and scabby. One by one the sisters left, into early marriages and cashier jobs, but the house was just as cramped as the boys grew taller, their massive feet spreading into the vacated space, and the drains still clogged with hair as they passed puberty and proceeded to directly balding, like their father. Continue reading
Hawaii Pacific Review 