It Wasn't My Fault

It Wasn’t My Fault

I was in the attic playing dress-up with things from Grandma’s trunk because there were no more stray cats in the neighborhood to play with. 

I wanted to be up on the roof, but they’d locked the door.  Too dangerous, they said.  After what happened.  So I played just beneath the rafters, looking at my pretend-self in a dusty mirror.

When I looked in the mirror, I didn’t see my eyes.  I saw hers.  My baby sister.  Dead two years now.  She had eyes just like mine.

It wasn’t my fault.

Our house had a widow’s walk on the roof.  I used to play there every day.  Then she came to live with us and after a few years, she wanted to play there, too.

My parents warned, “Be careful, she’s much younger than you.”  They were always telling me that it was my responsibility to be nice to her and to teach her new things.  And protect her.

It wasn’t my fault.

It happened in a blink of an eye.  She went off the walkway and hung on to the bottom of a wrought-iron post; her pudgy legs kicked as they dangled over the precipice.  Her eyes fastened on mine, pleading, even as I pried her fingers from their precarious grasp.

It wasn’t my fault.

It was her fault.  She took their attention, their time, their love. 

She shouldn’t have come to my house.

Now Mama says there will be a new baby coming to live with us soon.

We’ll see how long that one lasts.