Space Sisters by Nicole Brogdon
Let’s pretend I never broke your arm—though it was an accident—when you were little, one
of those days we climbed up the pitched chicken coop and I lay down against sticky asphalt
shingles under the baking sun, chickens clucking in their shitty feather smells beneath the roof, when we played the Flying Game, where you were the rocket—though you said, “I wanna be a bird, a bird that turns into a rocket”, and OK, I was the launcher, my big bare feet pressed together to form a seat, you leaning back to sit, no handles to hold, both of us tilted-–how blue the sky was that summer, how thick and far away the clouds—and I told you that if we believed it, you could fly, saying, “Wheee!” at the right moment, my legs wobbling under your weight, a whole five-year-old blond child, as I pulled them back, propelling you up and away, your head falling backward—Uh-oh—body, limp, casting a wobbly smoking arc up then sideways, down to dry grass, where you hit the earth hard, crack at your elbow. Let’s pretend that never happened.
Because of all the raggedy people in our unfinished house smelling of sawdust, cigarettes,
and beer, I loved you best. And I remember the day Mom brought you home from the hospital in a gray blanket, you looking like a featherless bird, still pink, head and mouth casting around for worms. I worried some one would squash you, or press the soft spot on your head—which I never did, though my hand hovered—or spank you as they spanked us for breaking dishes and windows with our clumsy hands, so I became a four-armed girl, carrying you on my hip, and you, a late walker, pounding spoon on high chair tray, saying, “Getti!” and I learned to boil spaghetti—like worms—to feed you, then French toast, because the parents slept in after fighting and we were hungry. Let’s pretend I never played rough, didn’t let you fall, never broke your arm then tied it up in a rag, and you didn’t have to keep asking Mom to take you to the doctor until she did and you got a fat cast. None of that happened.
But I did launch you off the coop in a perfect arc towards the sun that didn’t burn, “So blue
up here!”, you passing dragonflies, gliding through damp clouds, past red-ringed planets,
giggling the whole way, glancing at your wide wings. I stood on that coop and jumped after you, launching myself, flying too—behind you, for once—gulping black air, blinking at stars,
shooting past planets, both of us landing far away on a pock-marked planet where we combed each others feathers and hiked, catching five-eyed fish in a purple stream and picking and nibbling cactus, because we were tough sisters. You and me.
Author's Note:
My day job is licensed trauma psychotherapist, sitting with people’s feelings and hard stories.
I’m strongly invited to practice self-care, or fall into a pit of helplessness populated by abusers and hurts. I learn from clients and studies about self soothing, discerning personal self-care strategies that fit one’s senses.
Early evenings, I take a long walk (bilateral stimulation!), or jog. Exercising and doing
chores, I listen to audiobooks – particularly since my mother died recently, taking her regular
inquiry, “What are you reading now?”, along. There’s solace in human voices reading and telling stories—as Mother did when I was young.
Nicole Brogdon is an Austin TX trauma therapist interested in strugglers and stories, with fiction in Vestal Review, Cincinnati Rev, Cleaver, Flash Frontier, Bending Genres, Centaur, SoFloPoJo, Cafe Irreal, etc. Best Microfiction 2024, Best Microfiction 2025. Twitter NBrogdonWrites! nbrogdonwrites.bsky.socialNicole Brogdon is an Austin TX trauma therapist interested in strugglers and stories, with fiction in Vestal Review, Cincinnati Rev, Cleaver, Flash Frontier, Bending Genres, Centaur, SoFloPoJo, Cafe Irreal, etc. Best Microfiction 2024, Best Microfiction 2025. Twitter NBrogdonWrites! nbrogdonwrites.bsky.social
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