The Other Person

It’s not easy being last, especially when your sisters are so far apart from you. One minute you’re there in their little gang, listening to grown up things, next minute you’re just a little girl and cannot be allowed into conversations that deal with “adult life” like money, men, sex.

They don’t know if you’re having it, they don’t care either, not that I’m having any of it, but they shouldn’t assume that I’m not adult material, or kick me out of those secret poker nights they hold every once in a while.

But that’s not the worse blow, you see all these things happens right under your nose, but you can’t pick it up, because they’d drown you in chores and unthinkable errands that deserve a gold medal, so you see them, all huddled up in a cozy embrace, probably discussing about which cousin had the most terrible hair or life at the last family get together, or some other shit, and I’m stuck behind them plucking the hairs from the table cloths, watching them and wishing to be invited in their circle, and do they invite me, of course they do, only when it’s time to discuss dinner menus, or the economic downturn of the country.

I think my sisters are witches, I mean how else could you explain it? They’re either witches or spies who speak in Morse code. As a last child, I always get middle seat in the car, so I’m stuck between them, and I think yes! Finally I can be part of the cuddle, but still I’m not. Why? Because they must’ve cast a spell on me, a funny spell that makes me unaware of their discussion, until the final or closing comments.