From the mind of Mary Purdy: A collection of true personal essays, creative outbursts, humorous monologues and other sundry offerings that necessitated translating ideas and whims from the brain onto the keyboard.
fighting as usual. About what is hard to say.
What do siblings actually fight about?
It could be something as silly as one of us taking the last Fig Newton
or borrowing an item from the other’s room and not returning it. Or
perhaps it is that it’s easy for my big brother to detest me just for being his
little sister, pig tails, red leotard, running around the house, torturing him
with my 7 year old-ness.
he throws me on the bed, my bed, where I tumble and roll, my red leotard a
momentary flash in the air. Then, tickles me, punches me, lightly enough that
it still hints of a game but hard enough so that I yelp “Stop!”
“Stop!” This is the daily 3-5pm
after school routine: Games of Battleship and Stratego dissolve into
full out chases around the house, me the pursued screaming wildly while
whizzing around living room corners into the dining room, dodging wooden
African statues, silver candlesticks, and leaping over the piano bench to
wrestle on the bed with him pushing and pushing me until I somehow slide down
into the space between bed and wall and become lodged in a spot on the floor.
He peers over the side of the bed to capture a glimpse of my position and I
glance up at him, my eyes pleading for a truce and doused with adrenaline from
the pursuit. There is a pause as I see the idea seizing him. His face disappears
and I hear him hop off the bed and
suddenly feel pressure on my side as he
begins shoving the bed against the wall, squeezing my body into an already
tight space like bat man and wonder woman with the walls caving in on them. He
pauses for a moment and climbs atop the bed to take a look at my face gnarled
up and crying. I stop when I see him, sniffling, mouth turned downwards,
whimpering. He smiles and I can see
another idea forming.
“Mary,” he giggles, this looks really
funny! I’m going to go get my camera and
take a picture. I’ll be right back.” The 7 year old actress in me immediately
perks up, the tormenting forgotten and replaced with dramatic opportunity. “Ok!” I agree. It sounds fun. So I wait there, preparing to simulate the
event again for the camera and when he returns, I scrunch up my face, produce
tears, start my best Hollywood wail and he captures it, takes a snap shot. And
then walks off. Game over. We both seem
pleased with the moment that has just been captured and I start imagining what
the photo might look like. I slide out
from the bed, one pig tail loose, red leotard covered with dust from the floor,
and we continue with our afternoon – I to my paper dolls, he to his soldier
figurines and life goes on.