I Stop Hating Karen

At first after she's born, I hate my sister Karen more than anything. She cries all the time, and she poops her diapers. And the grown-ups don't notice how disgusting she is, they just keep on liking her. They take millions of pictures of her. They never take pictures of Linda or me any more, but all Karen has to do is sit there, and out comes the camera, because that's apparently the cutest thing in the world. She sleeps in her crib. I want to know! How is that special? I sleep too, and no one ever wants to take a picture of me. She washes dishes. What's so big about that? Don't I do the same thing practically every night?

Grandma Johnson

My Grandma Johnson has in a comfortable house with an olden-days look to it. The back yard stretches out forever, to a workshed that hasn’t been touched since my Grandpa died. There used to be all kinds of interesting tools and plumbing fittings in there. Now, I think, there’s probably nothing left except dust and poisonous spiders. The front yard has a big carob tree, that’s good for climbing. It’s got an oak tree, with acorns underneath. You have to wear shoes when you go out there though, because the oak leaves are prickly.

Inside, the furniture is green plush and maple tables, and a bookcase full of Readers Digest Condensed Books from the 50’s in one corner. There’s a cage with no bird in it (but the parakeet’s memory is still there in the pecked places on the arm-covers), and a record player that no one’s used in the entire time I can remember. The smell is dust from the air conditioner in the window, and a faint whiff of gas from the stove.