I walk into the hospital playroom,
it’s the first time I’ve seen my sister since…
She’s playing with Barbie,
looks up and sees me–
she actually smiles.
I’m afraid of her face,
mauled with stitches.
Fifty-three,
they whisper. Each one my fault.
I’m the big sister. I’m five, she’s only three.
I should have protected her.
Mom asked me to.
She just wanted to give
the neighbor’s dog some water.
At first I thought
he was licking her face —
and then, I ran.
Jessie Bacho is a NJ writer and English adjunct at several local colleges (she likes to collect parking stickers and lanyards). In her spare time, she enjoys recreating scenes from The Muppet Show with her two sons. Her work has been published in Ars Poetica, In Other Words…, and Prism.