j.k. armstrong

The last time I saw my little sister was on a morning before school, shortly after I’d started the third grade.

We were eating breakfast at the table in the dining room while our parents shouted at each other in the kitchen. They were taking turns slamming things to see who could make the loudest noise.

My sister, who was around three at the time, kept turning her head to search for our mom and I kept trying to call her attention to all the different colored Tootie Fruities we had in our bowls. I’d pick a single one up with my fingers and name the wrong color. I’d hold it out to show her, waiting for her to look, repeating the incorrect color.

Usually, when Sofia turned to look, she’d cross her big brown eyes curiously, trying to focus on the tiny rainbow ring I was holding too close to her face, nostrils flaring at the synthetically tropical smell. She’d laugh silently at my mistake and lean in as close as she could to me to whisper the correct color (she’d already learned how to stay quiet). Then, uncoordinated but careful, she’d pluck the cereal from my hand with her small fingers and eat it, mischievously wrinkling her nose at me.

I would mime exaggerated disbelief, feign anguish that she was so much smarter than her big brother. Then we’d play again; I was determined to get it right! We got through a lot of mornings together like that, playing our game while our parents played theirs.

That morning, though, when Sofia turned to look, she ignored the cereal and stared at me, straight into my eyes. Something in her tiny baby brain had clicked into place and she was searching my face now for confirmation. As much as I wanted to protect her, I couldn’t stop my expression from telling her everything she needed to know.

She started to cry, a loud, desperate wailing. I watched helplessly, cereal sticky and melting in my fingers. Mom came into the room, picked Sofia up, and carried her away.

Dad drove me to school, white-knuckled and silent. Mom was going to come get me after baseball practice, but I never saw her or Sofia again.

I hope Sofia, wherever she is, is happy now. I hope maybe she’s thinking about me, too. I hope she still likes Tootie Fruities, or Froot Loops, or whatever they have, wherever she is.

I haven’t ever been able to eat them again.