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Memory

My memory is of a boy I didn’t know.

He was a friend of my older sister’s. He gave himself a party when he got called to serve in Korea, a place none of us knew existed. He wanted to give his favorite stuff to his friends, in case he never came back.

I don’t know if he came back from the war or not; I didn’t know him.

Our mother made me go to the party to keep an eye on my older sister, who was a little wild.

But what is a younger sister supposed to do? What if all the older kids are a little wild? What if they make fun of the younger sister and call her a virgin, like it was a dirty word?

She leaves the party room and sits alone on the steps.

And what if the party boy comes out to find her and brings her a soda and tells her not to be embarrassed, that there’s nothing wrong with being a virgin or not wanting to be wild, and what if he takes her back to the party and tells his friends to stop making fun of the kid and makes sure she gets to pick something from his give-away pile, although she doesn’t because she’s still shy?

Then what does she do?

She remembers him.

Even when she’s an old lady.

She remembers him.

My nails this week:

MY PROMPT FOR TODAY: That kid.