We were toddlers in waist-high snow. She was inches taller—babbling, pointing, teaching me to trace the first letter of my name in white powder, collecting the extra in cups. We added cream and spoonfuls of white sugar, stirred in vanilla, then gobbled our names with spoons. Yum, she rubbed my tummy—aren’t our names delicious.
We were baby bears, climbing trees in our backyard, sneaking Dad’s pocketknife to carve our names in the bark. We were dreamers under starry skies, their names—Arturus, Polaris, Vega—tumbled around our mouths with braces and sour candy and big plans to change the world.
We grew apart after Mom died, moved to opposite coasts. I wrote our names in the sand, tagged her in my post. Too busy changing the world, she didn’t even comment. By morning, the tide had carried it away. That night, I wrote in my journal how the days so easily forget about the years.
We were unprepared when the call came. Dad named her executor, put me in charge of burial. Lying on the thrifted oriental rug Dad had claimed was worth thousands, we scrolled through his phone, laughing at his ALL-CAPS messages to us and crying at our lack of replies. I don’t remember whose idea it was first.
We were adventurers again, the dynamic duo armed with fat black sharpies from the kitchen junk drawer. We stopped at every gas station, any bathroom with a door we could lock behind us. Call Dad, we scribbled under his number.
For years, we traded that phone back and forth, taking turns answering when his name lit up. Teenagers, night-shift nurses, drunks, divorcés. We answered every call, every text. Sometimes it was just me calling her to say goodnight or her texting me good morning in ALL CAPS.
Tracie Adams, author of two memoirs, Our Lives in Pieces and Not Finished Yet, has been nominated for the Pushcart, Best of Net, and Best Microfiction. Her work is published in Pithead Chapel, Stanchion, Fictive Dream, Cleaver Magazine, and more. Find her at tracieadamswrites.com and on X @1funnyfarmAdams.
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