HerStory
I can’t remember the first time I met my sister. All I know was she was older than me & I thought that she was cute. She wore black-rimmed glasses that pinched the end of her nose. She had two ponytails that constantly came undone (I can not remember my mother ever doing her hair). My sister and I spent a lot of time together in a stale, dark bedroom we shared with our brother. We weren’t really encouraged to have friends or to go out. Our dark, airless, messy chaotic room full of hand-me -downs and broken toys became an island, sitting in the wake of a possible tsunami. My mother was a defective shelter that always faltered when you needed it most. She buckled whenever the wave crashed in on our backs, thick leather with metal that left marks on the skin but worst of all, confusion in our souls. Copenhagen, 2006