Sisters, by any other name they would still be friends. Intent on each other and serious about their play, every tiny drama treated as if it is the most important thing in the universe.
The rusty tricycle is their focus at this moment. Who will push and who will steer, and from where the ride will begin. The scrappy yard of gravel and weeds is littered with their previous adventures. Each one the center of their attention in it's turn. Arguing and laughing, all at a fever's pitch, a loving mixture of selfishness and kindness.
Knowing they shouldn't venture as far as the cages of the fighting chickens, their energy and curiosity draws them there several times a day to harass the birds. Scolded by Mamaw they return to the ragged seat and basket of the tricycle.
Wonderfully unaware of the concerns of their family; the piles of laundry, the rent and the overdue electric bill. Blissful in a place where no electricity would only mean an evening or two of candles and kerosene lamps. An exciting, yellowed and flickering view of the run down trailer's interior that is their after dark domain.
I feel slightly guilty asking them to stop and pose with their toy in front of an uncut patch of grass. I am interrupting their play, but they gladly pause and give me dirty faced smiles at the thrill of having their picture made.
They are far from the world of want and worry. Waiting for Papaw to come home from work and pull up the rutted drive. Peanut butter and jelly for supper suits them fine.
The girls don't know their patched together family struggles. They only know they are sisters and that they are dearly loved.
